Lyrics

Madison’s mom she wears pink cardis.
But she has a lot to drink at parties.
That smoky voice a bit too loud.
That tribal tramp stamp sticks out in a crowd.
She’s Madison’s mom. Oh wow.

Madison’s mom rushed eta theta.
She knows what a four-point-oh is made of.
Overachieving cocktail dress.
She got her bachelors and her MRS.
Now she’s Madison’s mom, more or less.

There she goes.
Nobody’s asking for opinions on their fall decor,
Their Apgar score, the lines at the Container Store.
There she goes.
Nobody’s asking her to dance.
It’s just not proper.
But that won’t stop her.
Blowing kisses soaked in cheap rosé.
Madison’s mom, not today.

Madison’s mom she’s into Jesus.
But she’s got to look good when she sees us.
An open book, three shades of tan.
Like a tattered-cover romance full of sand.
She’s Madison’s mom, unmanned.

Madison’s mom she quit Pilates.
She found a new gym and she’s cruising for hotties.
Those imitation gold barrettes,
That passing whiff of menthol cigarettes.
She’s Madison’s mom, no regrets.

There she goes.
People are bristling at that eerie lack of body fat.
What wonders that, goat yoga does for this and that.
There she goes.
Nobody’s asking her to dance.
It’s just not proper, but that won’t stop her.
Casting glances, lonely weathered nets.
Madison’s mom, hedging bets.

Madison’s mom, she’s got a business.
It’s mostly self portraits in tube tops bearing witness.
A narcissistic shotgun shell,
Like a bible in an hourly motel,
She’s Madison’s mom, LOL

Nobody wants to hear about chalk painted chandeliers,
Or how you learned to live and let live-laugh-love, oh dear.
Nobody cares you’ve got that honorary PhD,
in Cherokee Applied Kinesiology.
Nobody wants to try your protein shake emulsifier,
Or once inquired about your flight with some person named Breckin Meyer.

There she goes.
Nobody wants to host a party for essential oils,
Organic soils, commemorative plates of the Royals.
There she goes.
Nobody’s asking her to dance.
It’s just not proper, but that won’t stop her.
Locking eyes with all the guys around.
Madison’s mom, ground down.

Madison’s mom she wears pink cardis,
She’s had a bit of a dry spell, but sister she’s hardy.
She used to have the farm to plow,
But oh those eggs are over easy now.
She’s Madison’s mom…

A shadow of what used to be,
An empty husk of jealousy.
That old grey mare is pushing 32,
Or is it 33?
Oh Madison’s Mom, dance with me.