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Crawlin' through the ruts and puddles of Gothamburg |
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With an empty wallet and a broken jaw |
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It was a bunch of Cuban fucks who beat me to the ground |
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I swear that I won't rest until |
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Their wanton souls are circumcised |
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On the way back home |
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Jimmy black on the phone |
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"I found your girl from the red light zone, |
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She ain't a pretty sigh no more. |
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I think that you should come here, |
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And check that things are right. |
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This chick just might bail out" |
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Stuff her in the trunk, I say |
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She ain't no good alive |
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We can sell her spleen to the rich american |
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With her shoelace necklace |
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She's the strangle fruit from the apple tree |
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But now as strange as the red room |
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Where lady day sings the blues |
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Her vocal tract slit open |
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She says: "Hey, what-the-heck, go break-a-neck" |
