The Fast-Talkin' Agent
Composer(s): Horton
Performer(s): The Duke Of Paducah



Son, you better listen to Clagmouth Clackett
If you wanna make it big in the showbiz racket
You got a big hit, Boy, but that ain't enough
You need a fast-talkin' agent to handle your stuff
And that's me, Son, Clagmouth's the name
Big wheelin' and dealin', that's the name of the game
I'll put you in the big time, set you up a firm
Gizmo Productions, earn while you learn
Me and you's partners, just sign your name
And, Son, you're on your way to the Hall of Fame
Sign here... Fried Chicken... Roast Beef...
Boy, that's where the gravy is...
T'ain't no joke, Son
You gotta get a big shiny automobile
And a great big house on Luxury Hill
Great inspiration, lookin' down below
For writin' them songs about Poverty Row
And you cut 'em, and I'll plug 'em
But you gotta be honest, Boy, tell it like it is
'Cos you can't be a phoney in today's showbiz
Once upon a time you could be a big star
Singin' through your nose to a tinny guitar
With a ten gallon hat and a rhinestone suit
And a flat-top Martin, you could grind some loot
But that's gone, Son... Flat, dead and gone
Time's are a-changin'... There's a new put-on
Today makin' records is a whole new gig
You can't make a silk purse out of a pig
Forget about Ragtime and all that Jazz
Now you gotta have a message with your razzamatazz
Knock somethin'... Hate somebody
Mommy and Daddy... They're the ones to blame
They squeeezed all the sugar out o' Sugarfoot Rag
Now you gotta get a gimmick from a brand new bag
Picked all the petals from the Wildwood Flower
Now you gotta peddle soul with your guitar power
Start peddlin', Son... If you wanna get the bread
That's where it is, Boy... Cornball's dead
Leave that barnyard stuff for the chickens
The County Fair's where it's still good pickins
Old Aunt Martha pays a buck and a half
For a record and a picture, free autograph
She's happy... So's Uncle Jim
They know you're a good man...
Why you sang 'em a Hymn
Sock it to 'em, Boy, with a poverty pitch
For without poor people you'd be diggin' a ditch
And who buys the records that's makin' you rich
That's right, Boy, don't you ever forget it
It's them poor, poor people...
I've got me a Star...
Get away from be, Boy, you bother me...