The Dirtiest Album Ever Recorded* — Vol 3 (Finale) · Track 11 · middle
Too Close
PARODY, laundered-double-entendre album (Vol 3, the finale). Write ORIGINAL wholesome lyrics that SOUND suggestive from the title but are LITERALLY and innocently about strangers standing too close together in a crowded elevator. The dirty mind is the listener's — the song is clean, DistroKid/YouTube-safe, G-to-PG. Vintage register to era. ⛔ CRITICAL COPYRIGHT RULE: do NOT reproduce, quote, or lightly paraphrase the source song's CHORUS/HOOK or ANY distinctive lyric line (even the famous tag line). Suno's filter WILL reject it and it creates real copyright liability. Borrow ONLY the general TITLE idea. Invent a completely fresh hook about strangers standing too close together in a crowded elevator. Source parodied (idea only, never its words): Too Close (1998).
Lyrics
Lobby level. Going up. The mahogany walls are polished so bright. I can almost see my face in the grain. You step in at the last second, holding a briefcase, smelling faintly of morning rain and coffee. We stand at opposite corners, a proper distance. Then the doors open on two. And three more people pile in. Your shoulder brushes my arm. You give a polite, meaningless "pardon me." And baby, now you're getting too close. I can feel the heat right through my coat. I think you're getting much too close now. I'm trying to read the little brass plate from 1857... "All safe, gentlemen." But all I can feel is you, too close. The bell dings for the fourth floor. A man is holding a stack of files. The crowd shifts, and you're pushed into me. The corner of your briefcase digs in my side. Everyone's staring up at the moving arrow, tracing its slow arc across the dial. No one meets an eye, that's the silent rule. The little fan in the ceiling just stirs the warm air. I know what kind of aftershave you wear. I really didn't want to know. And baby, now you're getting too close. I can feel the heat right through my coat. I think you're getting much too close now. I'm trying to read the little brass plate from 1857... "All safe, gentlemen." But all I can feel is you, too close. Seven... eight... nine... Is this some kind of social experiment? A test of patience in a vertical box? I'm holding my breath, counting the scuffs on my shoes. I can feel the rhythm of you breathing. Just an inch of air between us, that's all. Floor ten. The brass doors slide open. A collective, unspoken sigh. You step out without a single glance. And suddenly... there's so much room. So much beautiful, empty room.