Words: Robert K. Rose (1,2) & Paul J. Willett (3)
Music: "Irish Washerwoman"
Well my uniform's clean from my shirt to my slacks
And my distant ancestors put laundry in sacks.
I could not be a soldier, I won't even try,
But I'm laundryman for a whole clan of Dorsai
All the Dorsai are sloppy, they love dirty socks,
And they like getting sweaty and climbing on rocks.
They'll get stains on their tunics and rub them all in,
And right about there is where my work begins.
Chorus: Sing-ing yo de-o doe, de-o doe, de-o day-ee
Yo, de-o doe, de-o doe, de-o day-ee.
Now the Cetans will spill things all over the table,
The miners of Coby will smell like a stable,
The Terrans could make any laundryman cry,
But none gets as filthy as just one Dorsai.
Now the Dorsai forms lint-balls as large as the stars,
'Twas a Dorsai whose dust forms the deserts of Mars,
And each of my crew had his own method here,
Be it Spray-n-Wash, Woolite, or All Tempa-Cheer
On a planet of oceans with two great big moons,
I was stuck doing laundry for fifty platoons,
So I used what I had, put the world on my side,
And got rid of the grime, All Wisk'd off with Tide.
On assignment to protect a hollowed-out rock,
I discovered it held life and got quite a shock,
An inhabitant knew laundry better than I,
So now Boober Fraggle's the laundry Dorsai.
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