There’s a spy in my eye
drinking a mai-tai and eating French fries.
It’s no secret, he has no feet
stealing excretion formula bucket seats.
Isn’t it neat? There he goes on his prosthetic leg
raising havoc, playing with his cane
causing all kinds of trouble from here to Spain
not knowing how to explain
all the fuss that kept him, off that magic bus
meeting a lady in percussionary arts
who banged her timbales, and causing sparks.
I’ll not tell. I’ll not tell.
There’s a spy in my eye. Looking at me through his glass
drinking a mai-tai and causing a fuss.
What he’s doing now I can’t discuss
I have to go catch that magic bus.
(Joel L. Young)
