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*“Short People” by Randy Newman is a snarky, satirical jab masquerading as a pop song, delivering a wildly exaggerated roast of vertically-challenged folks with lines so ludicrous they border on cartoon villainy. With its bouncing piano and upbeat melody, the song mocks short people for everything from their “little hands” to their inability to “get around,” all while clearly winking at the listener with tongue planted firmly in cheek. It’s less an actual insult and more a biting parody of bigotry itself—but on the surface, it’s basically a musical roast that tells short people they’ve got “no reason to live,” delivered with the cheer of a children’s singalong.

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In this unsettling reimagining, the smooth-talking, swagger-filled narrator isn’t here to party… he’s luring kids with charm, games, and magic tricks under the guise of fun. He struts through neighborhoods with a twisted grin, tossing candy, whispering riddles, and leading children astray with hypnotic dance moves. Dressed to impress in a shadowy pinstripe suit, he hides his true motives behind catchy rhymes and a slick rhythm.

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I wanna nap and rock all night!
(And shuffle every day!)
I wanna nap and rock all night!
(Then golf and Matlock play!)

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Imagine you are inside a sentient music store, where time doesn’t move forward but instead loops in soft-focus montages of bittersweet almost-memories. Ronan Keating, a man who simultaneously exists inside and outside the concept of love, strolls through this liminal space, not searching for something, but also kind of finding it.

Every glance, every interaction, is both meaningful and meaningless—like trying to read a book in a dream but realizing all the pages are written in a language that only your past self could understand. The people around him are ghosts of love stories that may or may not have ever happened, reacting to him as if they are aware they’re inside a love song but unable to acknowledge it directly.

Keating sings without singing, because the song itself is a contradiction: it’s about the absence of words, yet the lyrics are literally words about not needing words. This is the equivalent of writing an essay on why essays aren’t necessary. Meanwhile, the camera movements float like they’re half-remembered moments from a love you didn’t even know you had until you lost it.

And by the time the video fades out? Nothing has happened, but everything has changed.

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Imagine you’re standing in a hallway that exists outside of time, where every door leads to a different parallel universe of past relationships—but only the ones where the emotional debris still lingers like a half-written text. You’re both the observer and the participant, reliving a moment that simultaneously happened, is happening, and never happened at all.

The song is a mirror disguised as a memory, but it’s also a conversation you never actually had—except in your own head, where it loops indefinitely like a scratched vinyl. Every lyric is a paradox: you were right, but you were also wrong; you’re over it, but also drowning in it; you’ve moved on, but you can’t stop looking back.

It’s nostalgia weaponized. It’s the feeling of scrolling through old messages but through a telescope, not a phone screen, distorting the words until they sound like a prophecy you ignored. The chorus is a confession, but instead of being spoken, it’s written in invisible ink on the inside of your eyelids, only visible when you close your eyes.

By the end, you realize: the song didn’t end. It just folded itself into another version of you who’s still thinking about it.

In short: Gracie Abrams wrote a song that functions like a time-traveling emotional glitch, and somehow, it just makes sense.

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The song basically says, “Life is trash sometimes, but don’t worry, we’re going to spiritually parkour our way to happiness.”

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"Lads from the City" (to the tune of Boys From the Bush)

Verse 1:
We rolled up late in a four-wheel drive,
GPS lost, barely made it alive.
Tried to buy a latte, but the town was dry,
Now we’re stuck in boots and swattin’ at flies.

Chorus:
We’re the lads from the city, we don’t belong,
Took one step outside, now everything’s wrong.
Flies in our faces, dirt on our shoes,
These country roads ain’t built for dudes.

Verse 2:
No Uber, no WiFi, no high-speed train,
Tried to ride a horse, now we’re limpin’ in pain.
The cows keep starin’, the locals just laugh,
Guess we ain’t built for this outback path.

(Repeat Chorus)

Bridge:
We thought the country’d be quiet and neat,
But it’s hot, it’s rough, and we miss concrete.
Back to the city, that’s where we’ll stay,
Y’all keep your dust, we’ll take valet!

(Final Chorus)
We’re the lads from the city, we had to go,
But the country life just ain’t our flow.
Flies in our faces, dirt on our shoes,
One more mozzie bite and we’re singin’ the blues!

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Hark! The air be thick with sultry heat,
And lo, mine garments do betray mine flesh!
Wouldst thou not bid me cast them off anon,
Lest I dost swelter in this fiery clime?

Verily, the warmth doth set mine blood afire,
A tempest rages ‘neath this weary brow.
If thou, too, dost feel this fervent blaze,
Then shed thy raiments, tarry not!

Forsooth, ‘tis hot in hither! 🔥

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