Well, I heard a lovely rumour
that Bette Midler had a tumour
So gleefully, I went to tell my friends.
But they said it was a lie,
And she wasn't going to die,
And by the way 'Have we got news for you'.

And they told me that the man I had always known as 'Dad',
Hadn't met my mum when I was born.
And they reckoned that I am, but I hope to God I'm not,
The b______ son of Dean Friedman,
The b______ son of Dean Friedman.

And my schoolwork fell behind,
With this bombshell on my mind,
And the art teacher said he understood.
But he could only sympathise,
With the sadness in my eyes,
Even though he showed me his Magritte.

And in the corridors of fear,
I would shed a lonely tear,
As ridicule flew at me from both sides.
And they mocked me in my mocks,
And embroidered in my socks,
'The b______ son of Dean Friedman',
'The b______ son of Dean Friedman'.

SupercalifragilisticborussiaMoenchengladbach.

And you can thank your lucky stars that you're not
The b______ son of Dean Friedman.
The b______ son of Dean Friedman.

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