Testo: Shel Silverstein. California C's.

Perched on a purple plastic stool
At the Hollywood-Mexo-Eato,
Tryin' to talk my way into
A free beef/bean burrito,
When a shriveled old man in a brown straw hat,
He sits down next to me --
He says, "Kid, I see you're kinda short
On California C's.
Now, you're new in town, and your stock is down.
Advice is what you need,
And I been here since the Strip was a path
And the air was fit to breathe.
And you can beat the odds in Vegas, son,
And the law of gravity,
But you'll never beat L.A.
Without some California C's
Now, the very first C, it stands for Cash;
For reasons too obvious to mention,
And the next is that expensive Car
To get this town's attention.
The third C is a Canyon Crib
With picket fence and roses,
And the fourth C is some flake Cocaine
For all your new friends' noses.
Then Chains of gold from Cartier's
To hang around your Chest.
Then learn that Cunnilingus, son,
To ensure your true success.
And once you get them Gucci Clothes
And Credit Cards galore,
That Classy California Cooze
Will soon be at your door.
And then you need your teeth Capped
By our most expensive dentist
And a Chump to play you backgammon
And a Champ to teach you tennis.
'Cause it's the Cut of your hair
And the Cut of your jeans
And the Cut of your Cocaine, too,
That's gonna put you a Cut above all the slobs
And make a Celeb out of you.
Yeah, this town's a great big orange, son,
You can grab it hard and squeeze,
But you'll never get no juice
Without some California C's."
Then he orders six tacos and pays his tab,
And tips a C-note for the meal,
And he walks outside to this Custom-made
Chrome-Covered Cadillac Cuntmobile.
And a Chauffeur jumps out and opens the door
And just before it closes,
I spy five Candy-Coated Cuties inside
With starry eyes and runny noses.
Then off they drive in a Cannabis Cloud,
Leavin' me here in the grease,
With a Coffee, a Clap and a Cigarette,
My three California C's.