I feel preppy, oh so preppy
I feel preppy, in-step-py, and chic
So un-schleppy that I’m certainly too good to speak
I’m equestrian, I’m done over
A pedestrian run over by style
And so perfect that I couldn’t even crack a smile
See that preppy boy in the singles bar
What a smart example of ta-aste
See his preppy clothes, see his preppy shoes
See his hollow brain, what a fucking waste
I feel puerile, I’m clandestine
People swear I’ll be best in their bed
I’m well hung, if a mirror’s hung overhead.
Did you know that I’m from the Valley?
Encino is keen, oh my gawd
And if you are keeping a tally
Count how often I say “Oh fer sure” . . . you’re be awed
I come from the land of the nouveau riche (oh fer sure)
And each Valley Girl should be on a leash
They spend time in stores, it’s, like, such a joke (oh fer sure)
Why waste cash on clothes when you can score coke?
I’m a Valley Dude, drive a Porsche
And I should’ve been an abortio—
Unless Valley Dad sends money I’ll snap
‘Cuz each Valley Lad is really a J.A.P.
(That’s, like, “Jewish American Prince,” okay?)
I feel yuppie, oh so yuppie
Like a puppy that holds its own leash
Don’t throw up-py; my priorities are cash and quiche
(La la la, invest, la la, I.R.A.’s)
Ronald Reagan, Wall Street Journal
Call me pagan, infernal, or slow
Call next week. We’ll do breakfast. Oop, gotta go.
Buy bonds.
