Song parody of
For Seasons
by Chris Rains
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For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
That you must have gotten from ikea
When the frost breaks and rush the flowers awake
With the rain in your face, running in last place
Mayday Monday, could be a bad, bad day
But I've got no complaints, I've got nothing to say
For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
That you must have gotten from ikea
I'm a fan of the sunshine, but you're cancer to me
I'll be better off in sweet ole Kentucky
Where I learned to count my blessings stand up for my beliefs
You were always summer weather leaving with the breeze
MINUS Showing up just to (Always) leave(ing) with the breeze
Is it the rolling hills or black walnut trees
Hanging out in a pile of painted leaves
When the bluegrass fades to slighter green
In a misty morning winding down frosty streets
Now there's a funny little hole in me
That wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger
But in your chest or head or eye
That always reminds me to look up to the bright blue sky
For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
Hope you finally got all of your shit figured out
For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
That you must have gotten from ikea
When the frost breaks and rush the flowers awake
With the rain in your face, running in last place
Mayday Monday, could be a bad, bad day
But I've got no complaints, I've got nothing to say
For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
That you must have gotten from ikea
I'm a fan of the sunshine, but you're cancer to me
I'll be better off in sweet ole Kentucky
Where I learned to count my blessings stand up for my beliefs
You were always summer weather leaving with the breeze
MINUS Showing up just to (Always) leave(ing) with the breeze
Is it the rolling hills or black walnut trees
Hanging out in a pile of painted leaves
When the bluegrass fades to slighter green
In a misty morning winding down frosty streets
Now there's a funny little hole in me
That wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger
But in your chest or head or eye
That always reminds me to look up to the bright blue sky
For seasons never had an idea
Comic strip bubbles screech onomatopoeia
Sitting pointed south, on a rock hard couch
Hope you finally got all of your shit figured out
