HID

Lyrics

[Intro – spoken] Ladies and gentlemen… Meet the H.I.D. One man’s been in the military since Jesus was a recruit… And the other one is apparently already talking to himself. What a fuckin’ dream team. [Verse 1] Peter’s been serving for fifty fuckin’ years, Seen every war, every exercise and drank a thousand beers. He remembers when the radio was two cans on a string, And dinosaurs were corporals and the Queen was still a thing. He’s seen every fuck-up, every plan go down the drain, So nothing really shocks him — except putting on clothes again. ’Cause Peter loves it naked, balls swinging in the breeze, Walking round like Michelangelo carved him from the knees. He looks into the mirror like, “Goddamn, what a man,” While everyone behind him thinks, “Put some fucking pants on, Stan.” And legend says his younger years got sexually bizarre, More swapping than a NATO exercise with keys inside a jar. [Chorus] Ohhhh, it’s Peter and Wim-Jan, The H.I.D. and his right-hand man. One thinks he’s God’s gift with his cock in the sun, The other works his ass off till the whole damn job is done. Peter’s got experience, stories and grey hair, But when shit needs fixing, guess who’s fucking there? We love you, Pete, but here’s the goddamn kicker: Wim-Jan does the work… and somehow does it quicker. [Verse 2] Now Wim-Jan is the helper — though “assistant” sounds unfair, If somebody needs something, Wim-Jan’s already fucking there. Need a form? Need a phone call? Need your asshole wiped at three? Wim-Jan probably scheduled it and made you fuckin’ tea. He works like promotion boards are watching every day, Already sees those sergeant-major stripes from miles away. He walks around thinking, “Yeah, that rank belongs to me,” Though currently the biggest fan of that idea is… he. He’s polishing his boots, preparing for command, Practicing his serious sergeant-major stance. “Leadership! Discipline! Standards!” he’ll proclaim— Then five minutes later he’s arguing with himself again. [Verse 3] That’s right, Wim-Jan talks alone like there’s somebody inside, Full conversations, questions, answers, arguments combined. You hear him mumbling, “Yeah… well… no… that’s fucking dumb,” So you politely answer him— “WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU TO COME?!” You’re standing there confused like, “Mate, you spoke out loud!” He glares at you like somehow you’re the fucking problem now. So everybody learned the rule, and this advice is free: When Wim-Jan starts a meeting with himself— LET THE MAN FUCKING BE. [Chorus] Ohhhh, it’s Peter and Wim-Jan, The H.I.D. and his right-hand man. Peter’s got stories from nineteen-seventy-two, Wim-Jan’s got sixteen tasks and somehow finishes twenty-two. One’s been swinging since before the internet began, The other’s having arguments with an invisible man. And if you ask the office who deserves the biggest cheer… We’ll whisper, “Wim-Jan”… ’cause Peter might fucking hear. [Bridge – spoken country breakdown] Peter: fifty years of military knowledge. Wim-Jan: fifty open Excel files. Peter: “Back in my day…” Wim-Jan: “I’VE ALREADY FUCKING FIXED IT.” Peter: naked somewhere drinking coffee. Wim-Jan: talking to himself near the printer. Together? Operational excellence. Sort of. [Verse 4] Peter knows procedures that don’t fucking exist, Names of retired generals nobody else has missed. He’ll tell a twelve-minute story when you only asked the time, Then finish with, “I used to swing,” Like that somehow makes it rhyme. Meanwhile Wim-Jan’s running round maintaining the machine, Probably the busiest self-appointed sergeant-major ever seen. He’ll bitch, he’ll moan, he’ll mutter, he’ll complain, Then somehow get it sorted while Pete’s naked once again. [Final Chorus] So here’s to Peter and Wim-Jan, The weirdest fuckin’ leadership plan. Fifty years of service versus one ambitious bloke, One shows you his experience— The other gets shit done before you’ve spoke. Peter thinks he’s handsome, and God bless his confidence, Wim-Jan thinks promotion is just basic common sense. But if the whole damn section had to choose who runs the show… Peter, we fuckin’ love ya… BUT WE’RE GOING WITH WIM-JAN, BRO! [Outro] So raise your beer to Peter, Keep your clothes on if you can. And never interrupt a conversation Between Wim-Jan… …and Wim-Jan.