"Zombie Mutant Cyborgs of the Wasteland"—Crooked Timber

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Zombie Mutant Cyborgs of the Wasteland

(Music by Scott Ryan; lyrics by Scott and Lilla Ryan)

I've always been in love with country music
And to play it was a lifelong dream of mine.
My life was changed forever when the record people called
To say they had a dotted line for me to sign.

I packed my truck and headed out for Nashville
With a suitcase full of clothes and my guitar.
As I sailed along it seemed to me I hardly touched the road;
I was gonna be a country music star.

          Then the lightning struck
          And it hit my truck
          And I went spinning through what must have been
          A portal ripped in time!

When I came to, I was in the future,
Surrounded by some leather biker guys—
At least that's what I thought they were
Until I saw that they were glowing
Red behind their leather biker eyes.

Then I knew that they were

          Zombie mutant cyborgs of the wasteland,
          With purple Mohawks, staring down at me—
          Zombie mutant cyborgs in the Appalachian wilderness
          Of postapocalyptic Tennessee.

Their world had known atomic devastation;
I could see it by the flicker of the torch
As they tied me up and took me to a little broke-down shack
That had a banjo-playing cyborg on the porch.

A button that they pressed revealed a panel;
The panel swung out wide to show a door.
They carried me inside; they said, "Let's go for a ride,"
And I felt us start to sink beneath the floor.

          And they took me down
          Underneath the ground
          To a cavern where their Mutant King
          Presided from his throne.

They announced him as King Albert Gore VII.
My blood ran cold and I could not catch my breath
As he told the cheering mutant crowd that I would face their champion
In gladiatorial combat to the death.

Fighting one of those

          Zombie mutant cyborgs of the wasteland,
          With purple Mohawks, booing loud at me—
          Zombie mutant cyborgs in the Smoky Mountain underground
          Of postapocalyptic Tennessee.

Their champion stood before me clad in leather
And he eyed me with a red and fiery stare;
I looked with trepidation at his seven feet of muscle
Plus another foot of neon-purple hair.

But then they gave me a guitar, and him a banjo;
And King Albert shouted, "Let the games begin!"
And as we tuned our instruments, a light began to dawn,
And I thought, "Hell, this kind of combat I can win."

          So I strummed my strings
          And I began to sing
          And the golden age of country
          Filled that cavern underground!

I gave them Hank and Jimmie and Loretta;
I gave them Johnny Cash and Tom T. Hall,
George Jones and Roger Miller, some Waylon and some Willie—
By the time that we were through I'd played them all.

Entertaining those

          Zombie mutant cyborgs of the wasteland,
          With purple Mohawks, cheering wild at me—
          Zombie mutant cyborgs at the Grand Ole Opry Thunderdome
          Of postapocalyptic Tennessee.

My opponent bowed and dipped his banjo to me
(Though, truth be told, he'd kept up pretty well).
I took a surreptitious look to find myself an exit;
It was time for me to leave this future hell.

They led the former champion off in irons.
As the mutants watched him leave, I had my chance:
I dashed and made it back to that little broke-down shack
And I took off without a single backward glance

          Back the way we'd come
          Till my legs were numb,
          And I breathlessly dove headfirst
          Through that portal ripped in time!

When I came to, I was in my own time
And my truck was just a smoldering heap of junk.
Now, that's the simple honest truth and nothing but, Your Honor;
I swear to God I wasn't driving drunk.

It was all of those

          Zombie mutant cyborgs of the wasteland,
          With purple Mohawks, chasing after me—
          Zombie mutant cyborgs in the Appalachian wilderness
          Of postapocalyptic Tennessee.

Everybody sing!

          Zombie mutant cyborgs of the wasteland,
          With purple Mohawks, chasing after me—
          Zombie mutant cyborgs in the Appalachian wilderness
          Of postapocalyptic Tennessee.