You get the ankles
|
and I'll get the wrists.
|
You get the ankles
|
and I'll get the wrists.
|
You get the ankles
|
and I'll get the wrists.
|
You come down to this.
|
|
<repeat>
|
|
Nerves are up
|
and the eyes all screwy
|
Blood like a panful
|
of boiling ratatouille
|
|
My muscles in a mess
|
like a mess of spaghetti
|
Hack through the mess
|
with a greased-up machete
|
|
Hang from the axles of a box car
|
Follow the dotted line
|
Like a steer to Chicago
|
But to the hooks of the Chicago man
|
|
I get all tripped up
|
my eyes turn to water
|
rug burns from a shag rug
|
struck dumb in the presence
|
polyester burns from a jacket
|
rub the skin thin
|
break down in a diner
|
then I paid the bill
|
|
cashier toothpick stuck in the ground
|
tiny lawnmower to mow me down
|
I could get lost in a lunchbox
|
lie low in the mittens in the lost and found
|
|
-----------------
|
DOWN TO THIS
|
| Soul Coughing |
