Nobody wants to be moist
bunch of overactive pores
I [bad word] opening doors
And I lose every tug of war

Nobody wants to be wet
Though sweet soul I do secrete
Can’t make damp fingers snap to the beat

The microphone is dripping
My baritone is slipping
rhyme into this line I’ll have to foist
Nobody want to be moist

Nobody wants to be moist
Though on the dance floor I glide
On stairs I’m petrified
(That’s how Harry Wismer died)

Nobody wants to be soaked
Though it is with a graceful ease
I deduce in which way blows the breeze

Oh sure I have the power
To make paste from a powder
But last time I did that no one rejoiced
Nobody want to be moist

man so ancillary
My little song is buried
Not till [bad word] is it voiced
Nobody wants to be
Nobody wants to be
Nobody wants to be moist