Trinket Jerry senses your anger.
The gill-like organs under his lying tongue tell him exactly what booshwah you're going to spout,
before you ever open your mouth.
Trinket Jerry the bullshit fairy
knows you better than you know yourself.
He's got your number on his ticket,
your Shinola on his shelf.
"You're not making any sense," you complain bitterly,
following Ole Jer's latest escapade,
his Big Excuse Parade.
He senses your anger with the tiny hairs inside his big jug ears,
But Jerry just rocks on like a resistant virus
and there you are, Queen Twitchy of the 11th Hour,
wondering how Trinket Jerry turned I'm-with-stupid into us.
An off-the-cuff mess for Toads. (whispering) The password is..."trinket."