you got the sideways grip im about to flip your backdrop dizzy spell
puttin
dents in the padlock cold defying the laws of slingshot a white picket
fence
to separate the stones you stand on before the tide comes in on the
early dawn
the light bulb spins on the horn rims you blister in the sun youre just a
salt bag spill another salt bag spill cause its a green jean battle from
the
burlap i break your ribs and its full contact vagabonds you start a war
but
were the cream of the crop and youre the cream of the corn crash
collide and
no good comeback flash in the pan like a burnt short stack but weve
got the
butter to let your mud slide youre slippin on down for the test of time
so
im pitching my fork in mr. rourke you get the trap door with sawdust
splinters pepper in the jar gettin served that dinner slam you like a
screen
door keepin' out the terminal condition you get the oatmeal bath
youre out of
commission youre tarred and feathered and covered in lacquer and
your heads
in a bucket thats ringing with laughter