Infantile Ian: A Folk Song

Ian, don't you cry,
I know a lullaby,
To send your nothin'
Worries to the moon.

Your claims are infantile,
And you're filled with such denial,
So Ian won't you
Listen to this tune:

Let me pacify you, Ian,
I don't understand you bein'
Such a sorry, suckered, pitied guy.

Your friends have all stopped callin' you,
And your woman, she done left you too,
But you never take the time to wonder why.

You worry that the sky might fall,
And if your soup gets cold at all,
You bellyache and cry and fuss around.

But they must be crocodile tears,
'Cause for all your infantile years,
You musta' learned to look somewhere but down.

Oh infantile Ian, honey,
Your point of view just ain't so sunny,
You see the world in all your mixed up ways.

Count your blessings, not your sorrows,
Thank the Lord for your tomorrows,
Don't curse 'em like you do your yesterdays.

Don't curse 'em, like you do your yesterdays!