Every tune's been collarednEvery word's been hollerednBy a certain Mr. Pollard and the songs he singsnnEvery tune's to die fornEvery word's a ciphernAbout his hunting knife or other valuable thingsnnThe celebrated Mr. PnPerforms his tracks express for menThey burrow in my head and there they staynAnd when a tune escapes his brainnHe simply fills it up againnThe songs of Mr. Pollard save the daynnEvery tune's been collarednEvery word's been hollerednBy a certain Mr. Pollard and the things he thinksnnHis muse produces like a geysernIt doesn't matter what he buys hernAnd so it's usually Budweiser that he drinksnnWhen laundromats and lullabiesnConspire to cut me down to sizenI tremble like a zebra on displaynThe flies surprise the telephonenA new parade to call me homenThe songs of Mr. Pollard save the daynnCry your knife awaynPollard saves the daynBands collapse and he will staynPollard saves the day