La Vida Loca

When she told me she had cheated on me,

I imagined Cher spread-eagled,

and Sonny dead on the slopes.

Thank you, tree, oh thank you, tree.

Could I forsake the look of love in her eyes

while she humped another man?

It ain’t me, babe, it ain’t me.

The song kept grinding like an organ grinder’s monkey,

and did not resolve itself.

It ain’t me, babe, echoed once again.

It was Sonny’s misfortune,

but you are just a whore, I hollered.