John Holmes is dead, but I have heard it said,

He used to walk the nude beach getting tanned,

He'd shoot the crowd a moon,

Then amble 'cross each dune,

Behind him leaving three tracks in the sand.

Poor John is dead, a casket for his bed,

But rigor mortis settled in his hose,

In the lid we'll bore a hole,

And through it thread his pole,

Or else we'll never get the damned thing closed.