Tis me my dear friends (as I spit this verse quickly),

You're pal, Dr. Sick, though my dearest say "Sickly".

My calendar thickens, with bands far and near,

And SICK'S PACK for certain you'd do well to hear.

While THAT Damned Band bellows, as Bourland he sings,

and Lady Bangs tippy-taps with The Finer Things,

And I play with vigor, and puff out my chest,

The time it grows nigh, known as South by Southwest.

My schedule is somewhere one's easily lost in,

Although every spectacle takes place in Austin.

To see all the shows, the fat and the filler,

Please visit myspace.com/fiddlekiller .

For Sick by himself, he's at Trophy's March 5th.

Sick's Pack is at Opal Divine's on the 6th.

Or to see us burn fiddles and sweat by the pint,

Buy tix to Red 7 on Sunday the 9th.

If Friday's hangover has left you quite fine,

6PAK hits radio Saturday from 3-4 on KAOS 95.9  (it's only rhythm, let it go)

Our farewell performance may set you on fire,

On St. Patty's Day, o'er at Ruta Maya,

Where green beer will pour, for each lady and fellow,

And harlots will wrestle in a tub of green Jello (no shit!)

And if you're of age, we advise you compete,

For a shot of ol' Jameson.  Wow, what a treat!

The best Irish accent will win you a shot,

So will the Riverdance, give all you've got!

The redhead who flashes the reddest of hair

Will drink with the others, who said life's unfair?

So best I should see you, lest grief be my fate,

Or else I'll assume you'd rather masturbate.

Are we fit to judge how you fondle your sack,

Or whatever you fondle?  Fuck no!  We're SICK'S PACK!!!