| Song | Bechamel |
| Artist | Pernice Brothers |
| Album | Goodbye, Killer |
| I was in my shoes; I was in my coat | |
| Her apéritif smacked down my throat | |
| And a rack of lamb with a coq au vin | |
| Picking pot de crème off of jealous lips. | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| I want her bones, and I want her flesh | |
| And that's all she'll give me; I want the rest | |
| So we drink too much, and we drink some more | |
| With the DNA soaked into the floor. | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| Pack him off in ice | |
| Wrap me up in cellophane, | |
| The aftertaste like aspartame | |
| It's candy and it won't be tamed | |
| This love, this love. | |
| Dinner bell, my bitter little béchamel | |
| It's spoiled rotten, I can tell | |
| His love, his love, his love. | |
| [Guitar Break] | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| Pack him off in ice | |
| Wrap me up in cellophane | |
| The aftertaste like aspartame | |
| It's candy, and it won't be tamed | |
| This love, this love | |
| Dinner bell, my bitter little béchamel | |
| It's spoiled rotten, I can tell | |
| His love, his love, his love | |
| His love, his love, his love. | |
| [Best attempt, probably not perfect.] |
| I was in my shoes I was in my coat | |
| Her apé ritif smacked down my throat | |
| And a rack of lamb with a coq au vin | |
| Picking pot de crè me off of jealous lips. | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| I want her bones, and I want her flesh | |
| And that' s all she' ll give me I want the rest | |
| So we drink too much, and we drink some more | |
| With the DNA soaked into the floor. | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| Pack him off in ice | |
| Wrap me up in cellophane, | |
| The aftertaste like aspartame | |
| It' s candy and it won' t be tamed | |
| This love, this love. | |
| Dinner bell, my bitter little bé chamel | |
| It' s spoiled rotten, I can tell | |
| His love, his love, his love. | |
| Guitar Break | |
| Ignore the warning voice of my last appeal. | |
| Pack him off in ice | |
| Wrap me up in cellophane | |
| The aftertaste like aspartame | |
| It' s candy, and it won' t be tamed | |
| This love, this love | |
| Dinner bell, my bitter little bé chamel | |
| It' s spoiled rotten, I can tell | |
| His love, his love, his love | |
| His love, his love, his love. | |
| Best attempt, probably not perfect. |