Texty: Flannel Mouth. Sleaze-bomb.

You're a real trooper, son.
You're driving skills have proven me wrong.

Full of trust, a half bloated goat awaiting my orders.
Switching gears, I'm the slip of your tongue.
Switching gears, I'm the man on the run.

I wrecked the other competitor's roses in an attempt to set my assets aside.
According to your inner thoughts I'm in need of a motive to pleasure my prestigeous tomb.

Desolation is astounding in numbers, i'm proceeding to cross the boundary.

I'll throw you in the gutter, faster than you can say "how do?"

I've noted my citation to the latest issue of a dirty magazine.
I'll quote the gods of sleaze and burn.
Another night and i'll complete the turn,
a singed and shaking piston.
I told the guard, so you better listen.
We discuss the wanted man's floorplan;
a collective assortment of bandstands.
Eating wreckage in my path,
Was it the first, middle, or last laugh?

Tonight chemistry has discovered new lengths,
you and me and a bottle of whiskey.
I make moves that shouldnt be physically possible.

Tread the road beneath my tires.
I might be blessed but don't cross my wires.
A crowbar will leave my signature across your (censored) plains.


Insects have politics too,
"eat or get eaten."
Pavement tastes like a dullen bordeaux.
How long must the sheep go missing,
before the shepherd starts wolf hunting?
I picked the dame up, tore her world apart,
and now my trunk is stained RED