Down to This
And I get the wrists.
You get the ankles
And I get the wrists.
You get the ankles
And I get the wrists.
You come down to this.
Nerves are up
And the eyes all screwy
Blood like a panful
Of boiling ratatouille
Hang from the axles of a box car
Follow the dotted line
Like a steer to Chicago
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 pay 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
Autor(es): L. Brown / Soul Coughing