all the old creeps crawling with their stale wine midnighter's
comedown, and the strayhound calling, eight straight with not one
sober round. 1-2-3-4, the loose tooth made you taste the floor, the
old shopping carts fallin after me, vultures swarm so you know it's
me and they're going out, they're going out. a young man's glowing
with a thought of no, no, no you don't, and so you just trip, slip,
smother me, it's just what the fuck that mothers me, 1-2-3-4,
disease, bashed and gashed for final score, with all the dicks with
tits home free, you'd have to hook line and sinker me, and they're
going out....