When I was newly married -- several lifetimes ago it seems -- we lived on the second floor of a four-unit apartment building. The unit below us was rented to three or four college age young ladies, and the unit beside us was occupied by a young couple. On some evenings we could hear the guy beating his wife.
One night I heard a noise outside our bathroom window and when I looked out I saw some movement behind the bushes below us. When I stood up on the toilet and looked down through our blinds I could see the top of a guy's head. He was looking through the blinds into the girls' bathroom. A minute later I heard a toilet flush and I could see the guy creep around to the back of the building and disappear. I was pretty sure it was Mr. Bud Lite Wife Beater.
The next night I was ready. I had our bathroom window open, the blinds up, and the lights off. Pretty soon I heard the bathroom door close below me and I looked out. Sure enough he was there. He must have been waiting nearby for their light to come on.
I gave him a minute to get settled and then reached out the window and poured a whole pitcher of very old buttermilk in his direction. He scampered away quickly.
The next morning I went out and looked and found a trail of very gross buttermilk leading from the ground by the girls' window to around the back of the building.
I guess the guy had some explaining to do to his wife, but we never saw him out there again.
And that's the name of that tune.
-- Dalton Hammond