Clubhouse Chorale: "The Breakfast of (cheating) Champions"
When you’re tired of bein’ a wimp,
And you’re fed up with watchin’ all your limbs hangin’ limp,
When you’re sick of the teasin’,
Now’s the time, now’s the season,
And they’ll hardly remember they’ve been callin’ you “Shrimp.”
Steroids...will build you up quick,
Steroids...your neck’ll get thick,
Steroids...your abs’ll be brick,
And you might just become a raving lunatic.
When your teammates are drawin’ the cheers,
But there’s nothin’ but yawns and giggles fillin’ your ears,
Be as big as the Beatles,
Grab the pills, grab the needles,
And you won’t be in prison more than two or three years.
Steroids…right under your tongue,
Steroids…will make you feel young,
Steroids…your spring’ll be sprung,
So who cares if your temper gets a bit high-strung?
If you’re hell-bent on makin’ your mark,
Muscle up and you’ll send ’em flyin’ out of the park,
Say goodbye to your honor…
You’ll have fun with Madonna!…
All it takes is charisma and a chemical spark.
Steroids…they’ll help you mature,
Steroids…you’re through bein’ poor!
Steroids…they’re safe and they’re sure,
Though you may need a hatchet for your pedicure.
So it’s your turn to make the big move,
And you know that your numbers are just bound to improve,
Let ’em cry, “It’s not cricket!”…
Tell ’em just where to stick it!…
You’re a new force of nature and you’re findin’ your groove.
Steroids…will make you so strong,
Steroids…will help you last long,
Steroids…they’ll do you no wrong,
And as easy to swallow as to sing this song.
Steroids…you’re playin’ the game,
Steroids…you’re makin’ your name,
Steroids…you won’t be the same,
You’re just one more exhibit in the Hall of Shame.
Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at firstname.lastname@example.org.