Lyrics:

Lisa: Um. Can you hear me in the booth?
Booth: Loud and clear, Lisa.
Lisa: Oh, good. Thank you, sir, for letting me be in a real studio. It's
a genuine thrill, sir.
Could I trouble you with one request?
Booth: Sure thing.
Lisa: No synthetic sound please. I want all live musicians.

Lisa: Them that's got, shall get.
Them that's not, shall lose.
So the Bible says,
And it still is news.
Mama mayhem. Papa mayhem.
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own.
It's the strong get smart,
While the weak ones fade.
And if I get stumped,
They'll never make the grade.
Mama mayhem. Papa mayhem.
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own.
When you've got money,
You've got lots of friends,
Crowded 'round the door.
But when it's gone,
And all else find an ends,
They don't come round no more.
Which relations give,
Crust of bread and such.
You can help yourself,
But don't take too much.
Mama mayhem. Papa mayhem.
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own.
Murphy: Well, that was lovely, Miss Lisa. Very soulful.
Lisa: Thank you, Mr. Murphy.
Murphy: Now let's play a little blues.
(Sax solo fadeout)