Cowlick’s gone, replaced by a crown of thorns,
Trading red carpets for the fields and the corn.
He was Our Gang, now he’s a gang of one,
Loading up the dogma with a loaded gun.
No more He-Man Woman Haters Club scripts,
Just a cabin in the woods and some zealot lips.
Alfalfa’s in the wild, Alfalfa’s gone cold,
Selling every story that the studio sold.
From the He-Man club to the extreme right,
Living in the shadow of a holy white light.
Off the grid, off the rails, off the deep end,
Where the Rascals break and the spirits don't bend.
Arrested in a motel, huffing on the dust,
Now he’s preaching penance like it’s purely a must.
When you’re swapping out the limelight for a tinfoil cap.
Buckwheat wouldn’t know him, Spanky’s staying home,
While the little rascal’s building up a kingdom in the loam.
The credits are rolling, but the camera’s broken.
especially the lost ones.
