They're dirty. They're old. They're men. They're dirty old men. Mustache rides 50 cents, hobnail mirrors on their boots, ubiquitous highball glass perched precariously in their hand Dirty.

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This is the song that would come into my head when old Mr. Grubber used to take me into our secret place and he would teach me that lesson again. It took years and years of therapy and Thorazine to realize that it was he who was singing it. Maybe I should credit the lyrics to him.

Dirty old men, they play in their head
Sweaty black palms, and faces all red.
And if they could get their wish
They would fish
In a sea of innocence.

Dirty old men, they drink and they drink
Drink so much that they can't even think.
And if they drink any more
They will fall to the floor.

Dirty old man.
Dirty old man.
Dirty old man.
Dirty old man.

(Rinse & Repeat)