I don't want to hear about Clinton's thing
And he doesn't want to hear about mine.
If I never hear about it again
As far as I'm concerned, that'll be fine.

If he smothers himself in cold Jello
And bangs all his secretaries one at a time,
It's a story as old as the Capitol Hills
But it's not a capital crime.

I don't really care about Clinton's thing
Or his other acts of congress.
I don't really care how he gets his kicks
Or what's on Monica's dress.

I don't really care if it's bodily fluids
Or porridge, or soup or lychee
And I couldn't say if it's DNA
TSP, MSG, or PP.

I don't really care about Clinton's thing
Or the details of his private life,
But I have the greatest respect for the woman
Who's stuck with being his wife.

She keeps her dignity, stays on her toes
While the blows fall thick and fast.
It must be difficult being first lady
When you know you aren't the last.

I don't really care about Clinton's thing
Or its physical attributes.
If it's bent or it's straight, or it's so bloody long
That he keeps one end stuck in his boot.

When he went on TV, it occurred to me
That he really shouldn't have tried.
He just should have taken his pecker out
And said: "there, I hope you're satisfied!"

I don't really care about Clinton's thing
I'd much rather talk about mine.
Frankly, it's starting to make me sick
That they talk about his all the time.

I'm not even envious, I'm okay
And if he's having fun, well, that's fine.
But I don't want to hear about his anymore.
I'd much rather talk about,
Hear about, sing about.
I'd much rather talk about mine.