Hey Judd
You’re such a pud
You waste money on crap
Like Brady Bunch T-shirts
And Cat-in-the-Hat hats
Well, take it from me, Judd
The stuff you’re buying
Won’t get rid of your guilt
Or stop you from dying
Hey Judd
You’re such a pud
You produce your own zine
About all your buddies
In the local ska scene
Well, take it from me, Judd
All zines and scenes blow
They won’t help you as much
As a good HMO
Hey Judd
You’re such a pud
And your girlfriend’s no prize
A massage therapist
Who—yes!—watches the skies
Well, take it from me, Judd
The fun will soon end
When she loses your child
And you fuck her best friend
You’ll be old someday, Judd
Disillusioned by life
And when you slash your wrists
With a hemp-handled knife
Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, Judd
As you slowly die covered with blood
Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, Judd
January 3-4, 1999/April 25, 2017/July 9, 2023
DAVID V. MATTHEWS 