Yeah... what... yeah...
Here we go

To inhaling crushed bones through a dried up white-out pen
and riding the backwards racer in hot june rain
and a marching blue and gold plastic bag poncho rain coat

It's a wooden coaster with a medium hill height mean
High hill to flat ground ratio you know
I'd sell my shingles for a thimble dip of snow
Back then i'da sold my single for a finger tip of blow

And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis as was the style that year
(And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis as was the style that year)
And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis

In london, where the sirens yelp like a helpless dog with his paws stepped on
And the rain comes down in late july
And the record labels call you Why?

And your eyes are slits and bags of fat
And your eyes are pissholes in the snow
And your eyes are slits and bags of fat
And your eyes are pissholes in the snow

I swear the riders on the tube tie razors to their elbows
The riders on the tube keep call cold coal in their billfolds
The riders on the tube will hide cocaine in their shell-toes
And yes yes yes, man, they'll novacaine the hello

Till the constables got pitbulls with their car phones all stepped on
Till the constables got pitbulls with crushed bones up their nose holes
(Till the cows come home)

And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year
(And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year)
And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year
(And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes)
as was the style...