I wish I was a wicked man
I hate to be a saint
I wish I did the kind of things
That’d make your granny faint.
I wish I had an evil glare
An evil cackle, too
I’d glare and cackle just before
I stabbed and burgled you.
You’d say: “Who was that wicked man
With such a chilling stare?
I wonder what dark treasures
He stores up inside his lair.”
And you’d be right, I’d have a lair
With flapping bats and snakes
And eerie ghosts who’d give
The most heroic men the shakes.
The cops would try to find me
They'd recruit their smartest hound
But I’d be so sly and cunning
They could never track me down.
I’d be drowning puppies, cackling
MUAHAHA without restraint
And you can’t have that kind of wicked joy
If you’re a saint.
