Now I can sing a bawdy drinking song,
And I can quote a dirty rhyme,
But the one word that can make me blush
is "Flabohjah" - every time.
When I was a young Protestant
The Pastor said to me,
"Let's read from First Flabohjah,
Chapter five, verse twenty-three."
"Thus travelled far, the Spatulites,
into the land of Jod,
and smote the mighty Mag-lites
with the holy Camel-Prod."
"And when they had possessed the Land,
From Percodan to Tara-Reid
They ate the sacred Cack-o-loins
But spat-out every seed."
"What learn you from these words, my son?
A lesson rare, perhaps?"
"I've learned that your a foul-mouthed bastard!"
And I kicked him in the Apse
Then I grabbed him by the Wurlitzer
And tossed him on his Pew
And I marched out of that filthy church
And became an Irish Jew.
Now, when I was a young Tikiphile
At the age of twenty-six
I traveled West to Hollywood
To visit Trader Vic's.
I met a fine young lady,
Walking Sunset Boulevard.
She winked and said, "Flabohjah"
And my Kahikis both went hard.
She took me to a motel room
And showed me her Leilanis
She gently held my Mainlander
And purred, "My! but aren't you brawny"
I rubbed her Mr. Peanut,
The glaze was really pink!
She put my flame-red War God
To her lips and took a drink.
But when her velvet box revealed
An untouched Kona Kai,
I actually spilled my Navy Grog
From Mister Bali Hai!
"You're a Missionary's Downfall"
I moaned with deep affection
She said, "I'd be your Vicious Virgin,
For one-half that mug collection."
We were married late that Summer
At the temple on the lane.
We named our son, Flabohjah,
And our daughters, Kim and Jane.
And at the circumcision
The old Mohel gave a snort
"Flabohjah's a good name for him,
'Cause Dick would be too short!"
But after half-an-hour,
As his brows began to sweat,
He said, "Your son, Flabohjah
Might be the death of me just yet."
And half-an-hour later
I whispered to my wife,
"We wouldn't still be standing here,
If he'd used a bigger knife"
But at last the deed was over
As the sun began to set
"You might want to invest", he sighed,
"In a larger Bassinet."
And as our son grew tall and strong
The neighbors all concurred,
He epitomized "Flabohjah"
In every nuance of the word.
His chest was broad and muscular
His face was smooth and tan
His pajamas were the same ones used
By Sumu Wrestlers in Japan.
For nothing stirred the local girls,
to thoughts of sweet romance,
As the array of garments young
Flabohjah wore in lieu of pants.
He was most at ease in Lava-Lavas,
Pareos, or a Kilt.
He could wear an orange Djellabah,
Without the slightest sense of guilt.
So knowing where his talents lay,
I pulled a couple strings,
And launched his infamous career,
In women's under-things
His notoriety is only
Superseded by his fame,
And though he's no longer "Flabohjah",
I'm sure you've probably heard his name.
The inventor of the push-up bra,
The G-String and the Thong,
He lives on Tiki Central now
And goes by "TIKI BONG"
A great poem by Sabu the coconut boy!
