[Intro — bass riff, guitar kicks in] WHAT! No. Marines don't eat crayons. It's stupid. It's insulting. And frankly— What flavor is that red one? [Band kicks in] [Verse 1] Army guy was talking shit, Said, “Hey Marine, you hungry yet?” Held a crayon toward my face, Like I'd bite it just for taste. I said, “That joke is fucking old, We're professionals, we're trained and bold. Show some respect for what we've done—” Then noticed he was holding one... A gorgeous shade of crimson red, Little paper hat upon its head, But I stayed strong and carried on— 'CAUSE I DON'T EAT FUCKING CRAYONS! [Chorus] I DON'T EAT CRAYONS! Get that bullshit gone! I'm a United States Marine, Not some crayon-eating moron! I DON'T EAT CRAYONS! That's a stereotype! Now shut the blinds, Lock the door— AND PASS THE suh-ROO-lee-un TONIGHT! Red is bold! Blue is smooth! Forest green improves the mood! But I don't eat crayons— AND YOU CAN'T FUCKING PROVE I DO! [Verse 2] Get back home and lock the door, Check the windows, check once more, Close the blinds and dim the light— NOW WE FUCKING DINE TONIGHT. Behind the cereal, safe and sound, Sixty-four colors gathered 'round, Pull the box out nice and slow— LOOK AT THAT FUCKING RAINBOW GLOW. Yellow's bright with citrus flair, Blue's got flavor, smooth and rare, Forest green is earthy, clean, Purple tastes like royalty. Orange hits with smoky heat, Red's the perfect after-meat, But Burnt Sienna? Take your time— THAT'S A GODDAMN VINTAGE, FINE. [Chorus] I DON'T EAT CRAYONS! Get that bullshit gone! I'm a United States Marine, Not some crayon-eating moron! I DON'T EAT CRAYONS! That's a stereotype! Now shut the blinds, Lock the door— AND PASS THE suh-ROO-lee-un TONIGHT! Red is bold! Blue is smooth! Forest green improves the mood! But I don't eat crayons— AND YOU CAN'T FUCKING PROVE I DO! [Verse 3] There's etiquette to eating right, We're not fucking animals at night, RoseArt gets left upon the shelf— Have some goddamn pride yourself. Broken ones are field cuisine, Good enough when eating lean, Eight-count box is quick and plain— THAT'S THE M.R.E. OF THE CRAYON GAME. Twenty-four's your everyday, Good for lunch or canapé, Sixty-four with sharpener? THAT'S DRESS-BLUE DINNERWARE. Paper peeled and colors paired, Proper portions neatly shared, Maybe crackers on the side— MARINES HAVE FUCKING STANDARDS, GUYS. [Bridge — music drops to bass and clean guitar] Then one night I heard a sound From Gunny's house across the town, Door was cracked, the lights were low... I saw something I shouldn't know. Napkin tucked beneath his chin, Candlelight reflecting dim, Crayons laid from light to dark— LIKE A FUCKING CHARCUTERIE BOARD. Our eyes met. Neither moved. Neither man knew what to do. Then Gunny pushed a color toward me— BURNT SIENNA. Top shelf. I sat down. [Verse 4] Turns out Gunny knows his wax, Keeps the premium boxes stacked, Got a cellar underneath— Climate-controlled at sixty-three. “Spring of twenty-six,” he said, “Excellent batch, especially red. But if the Lance Corporals come around— Hide the fucking good stuff underground.” Soon the Sergeant Major came, Carrying a box without a name, Colonel brought a sixty-four— WE HAD TWELVE MARINES AROUND THAT BOARD. Nobody spoke of what we'd seen, There's a code among Marines, Publicly we all agree— CRAYONS ARE NOT CUISINE. [Final Chorus] WE DON'T EAT CRAYONS! Get that bullshit gone! We're United States Marines, And that stereotype is wrong! WE DON'T EAT CRAYONS! Say it loud and say it right! Then shut the blinds, Lock the doors— WE'RE EATING FUCKING COLORS TONIGHT! Red is bold! Blue is smooth! Forest green improves the mood! Orange! Purple! Gold and blue! SAVE SOME FUCKING suh-ROO-lee-un TOO! We don't eat crayons! NO, SIR! Never have! NOT ONCE! What's inside that dresser drawer? ... NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, CORE! [Outro] Some men like steak. Some men like wine. Some men pair cheese With something refined. Marines? We have standards too. [crunch] ...That's a damn good blue. I DON'T EAT CRAYONS! [Final chord]
