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When we learned it was a shocking revelation,
That somehow as men we simply hadn't grown;
So we looked at all you women,
Your pride in feminism,
And we started up a movement of our own.
Now we are men, and proud to be men,
And we bond every Saturday at three;
And we explore with great persistence,
Our masculine existence,
Beat our drums and run off naked through the trees.
Oh we all go running naked through the trees,
As naked as a jaybird if you please;
Oh we throw off all our wrappings,
And with private parts a-flapping,
We all go running naked through the trees.
Yes every weekend we all meet deep in the forest,
Where we beat our drums and fashion spears from trees;
And with our faces painted,
We all get reacquainted,
With our atavistic masculinity.
For we are men, and proud to be men,
We bond every Saturday at three;
And we flaunt with great pretension,
Those long penile extensions,
As we all go running naked through the trees.
I guess we spent too long pretending
We were something we were not,
While we hid our inner turmoil and our strife;
You thought we had a bed of roses,
Though we stood with runny noses
Pressed up hard against the window pane of life.
Now we are men and damned proud to be men,
We bond every Saturday at three;
And if you think it's just depravity,
You don't know what it's like to be,
A man while running naked through the trees -- it hurts!
