Something's wrong 'cause my mind is fading
And everywhere I look there's a dead end waiting
Temperature's dropping at the rotten oasis
Stealing kisses from the leperous faces

Heads are hanging from the garbage man trees
Mouthwash jukebox gasoline
Crystals are pointing at a poor man's pockets
Smiling eyes ripping out of his sockets

Got a devil's haircut in my mind

It takes a backwash man to sing a backwash song
Like a frying pan when the fire's gone
Driving my pig while the bear's taking pictures in the grass
In my radio smashed
And I like pianos in the evening sun
Dragging my heals 'til my day is done
Saturday night in the Captain's clothes
Tin horns blowing with my jury 'phros

Yo soy un disco cabrado
Yo tengo chicle en cerabo

Ahhhhhhhhhh

You only got one finger left and it's pointing at the door
And you're taking for granted what the Lord's made on the floor
So I'm picking up the pieces and I'm putting them up for sale
Throw your meal ticket out the window, put your skeletons in jail

'Cause Lord only knows it's getting late
Your senses are gone so don't you hesitate

She's got cigarette on each arm
She's got the lily-white cavity crazes
She's got a carborator tied to the moon
Pink eyes looking to the food of the ages

She's alone in the new pollution
She's alone in the new pollution

She's got a hand on a wheel of pain
She can talk to the mangling strangers
She can sleep in a fiery bog
Throwing troubles to the dying embers

She's alone in the new pollution

I dropped my anchor in the dead of night
I packed my suitcase and threw it away
I fell asleep in the funeral fire
I gave my clothes to the police man

Blow back derelict when, lay my soul in the foul of the air
Blow back derelict when, lay my soul in the foul of the air

Shooting venom at the passers-by
I'm hi-jacking stop the heaven down
I put my eyes in a paper bag

Keep on talking like a novacane hurricane
Low static on the poor man's short-wave
Stampede's got to dismantle
Code-red: what's your handle

Mission incredible undercover convoy
Full-tilt chromosome cowboy
X-ray search and destroy
Smoke stack black top novacane boy

Got so low your mom won't drum
Getting late with the suicide beat
Test-tube, still-born and dazed

I've been drifting along with the same stale shoes
Loose ends tying the noose in the back of my mind
If you thought that you were making your way
To where the puzzles and pagans lay
I'll put it together: it's a strange invitation

When I wake up someone will sweep up my lazy bones
And we will rise in the cool of the evening
I remember the way that she smiled
When the gravity shackles were wild

There's a destination a little up the road
From the habitations and the towns we know
A place we saw the lights turn low
With the jig-saw jazz and the get-fresh flow
Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts
Two turntables and a microphone
Bottles and cans just clap your hands just clap your hands

Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone
Where it's at

The last survivor of a boiled crap
Another casualty with the casual frown
The janitor vandals they bark in your face
Juveniles with the piles and paste

It's a sensation
A bankrupt corpse
In the garbage classes
With the crutches of frogs

Don't be confused when the fuse is up
And you're taking a leak into your brother's cup
When the cup is filled you can run and be killed

I don't need no wheels, I don't need no gasoline
'Cause the wind that is blowing is blowing like a smoke machine
If I said to you that I was looking for a place to get to
'Cause my neck is broken and my pants ain't getting no bigger

I got a stolen wife and a rhinestone life and some good ol' boys
I'm writing my will on a three dollar bill in the evening time

An open road where I can breathe
Where the lowest low is calling to me
I can pull myself back up back down
Stuck together like a readymade

And nobody knows where we been
Cancelled rations are running thin
Watches tick out of tune
Falling apart like a readymade

My bags are waiting
In the next life

Rubbish piles fresh and plain
Empty boxes in a pawn shop brain
License plates stowaway

High 5, high 5
High 5, high 5

C'mon on, 8, everybody, c'mon, 7, c'mon, now, 6, 5
Aw, yeah, I like that shit

When I rock it's like a high 5
Want a slap in the face I love the taste
All my days with my wheelchair ways
Watch me die in my suicide high
I don't mean it 'cause I only come on to you
When I step to the room with a powerful motion
Leopard skin let the records spin

You've been so long
Your blind eyes are gone
Your old bones are on their own

So take off your coat
Put a song in your throat
Let the dead-beats pound all around

We will go
Nowhere we know
We don't have to talk at all
Hand me downs
Flypaper towns
Stuck together
One and all

The bargains you drive
Buckets and bags
And all your belongings

Your train's in the sand
Ramshackle land