Keep Your Tans To Yourself

I’ll be heading to southern latitudes later this month to spend some beach time among the leather people, where I’m sure my phosphorescent white look and Yankee beach attire will draw some curious looks. Whatever, I really don’t care, and I just dare some weathered old bag in a thong bikini to inquire why I’m practicing safe sun. But I just had to write myself some music to sing along to while sipping something cool in the shade of a palapa hut.

To the tune of the Georgia Satellites “Keep Your Hands To Yourself”…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdpAop7gp0w&feature=related


I got a lotta scans on my docket going jingle lingle ling
Want to call doc on the telephone baby he’ll tell you some things
But each time I walk I see the same old thing
Always no safe sun no screenin’ until I get to Yankee wing
My honey my baby don't put your life upon no shelf
I said don't hand me no fries and keep your tans to yourself

Fool baby baby baby why you want to treat thee this way
You know I'm still a living boy I still reel from tan days
That's when I told her my story 'bout these meds made by Dow
And she said no safe sun no ‘screenin’ until she look like leather cow
My honey my baby don't put your life upon no shelf
I said don't hand me no fries and keep your tans to yourself

You see she wanted her tan bad and I was about to give in
That's when I started talkin' tough love started talkin' about skin
I said honey C lives with you for the rest of your life
She said no safe sun no screenin’ until she feels those sharp knives
My honey my baby don't put your life on no shelf
Please don't hand me no fries and keep your tans to yourself.