Things are comin' up roses   But I can't stand the smell   I can't get this taste out of my mouth      Now I'm eatin' the breakfast of champions   Post Nasal Drip   I'm being fed through a straw of moral astriction      And don't smile - it's a turnoff   And don't flinch - when it burns      'Cause they'll know you're weak   And I'll know you're weak   And I just might...Tell them      Now I'll sit right down in the back of the bus   And talk out loud   About being young and so well hung   And just a little proud      Now I don't beg for mercy and I don't plead   A little fear is all I need   From the bowel to the bowl   You can smell my rotting soul      Drill a hole in my skull   Vacuum the blood off my brain   Someone blew out the candles on my urinal cake      Harry Harlow and Harry Carey   Bring on the reaper it's harvest time   It's time I take the law in my hands      Come on, torch that broken down barnacle barge   Coat that carcass with pus discharge   You're just another weak link in the chain   You can change your mind   But you can't change your brain      Do you hear me laughin', I don't think so   People don't know when it's time to quit   Like my daddy always told me when I was a boy   You can shit where you eat   But don't eat where you shit      Sigmund Fraud and Sigmund Freud   I guess that's why I'm paranoid   Grab a hold of your seat   The plot starts to thicken   It takes a lickin' and keeeps on stickin'      Now I'm strolling down the dusty psychopath   Caught in the belly of a spiritual blood bath   Foolish things confound the wise man   Hit and run in a black sedan      Aaah, let's have our own battle of the bulge, baby      Take a ride on a public succubus   Hit and run, hit and run   Crushed by a mental incubus   Spit and run, spit and run      The sky turned black, and so did my soul   A one way trip from the bowel the bowl   Gonna piss my name in the snow, snow   Up, up, up and away we go      The gourmet fed me poison, poison   The rat fink gave me cheese, cheese   WHy don't you stand up and fight like a mannequin      Helen Kellyer, Hellenistic   The Greeks always did like it up the butt   Ambush your bush, Snatch up your snatch   Shake that ass you little slut      The last thing I heard was fifty car horns   My Christmas wreath became a crown of thorns   I never should have let e e cummings write my resume      Things are coming up roses   But I can't stand the smell