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The Scully Song

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There’s a woman, I’m in love with her, it seems.
A red-headed beauty who inhabits all my dreams.
She is the object of my infatuation.
She works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Oh my Scully, Agent Scully, when will you be mine?
You’re cold and analytical and that’s just fine.
I love my Scully, and I guess it’s time I told her.
I’ll be with her someday, even if it means I have to kill Mulder.

She’s seen spaceships, and little green men.
Yet if you ask her, she’ll say she doesn’t believe in them.
She always has to save Mulder when he screws up a maneuver.
She’s the prettiest FBI agent in skirts since J. Edgar Hoover.

Oh my Scully, Agent Scully, you are my one true love.
As beautiful as an alien, or an angel from above.
When you yell, “Freeze! FBI!” it makes me shake and quiver.
You’ve conquered monsters and beasts that are covered with goo and mucous, and who have abilities to change their skeletal structure and slide in through keyholes and kill you and then eat your liver.

You’ve been stung by bees that gave you the plague.
The aliens kidnapped you and harvested your eggs.
The government gave you cancer, but gave you the antidote, too.
The truth is out there — and the truth is, I love you.

Oh my Scully, Agent Scully, your monotone turns me on.
You can do an autopsy while firing your gun.
Your hair and makeup looks great, even while you’re saving the world.
Mulder gets killed at least once ev’ry year, and it’s getting so old that we really don’t care, but our Scully she’s always alive and she’s well, and I know that someday she’ll be my Secret Agent Girl.

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