| Now I'm a seasick sailor on a ship of noise | |
| I got my maps all backwards and my instincts poisoned | |
| In a truth blown gutter full of wasted years | |
| Like blown-out speakers ringin' in my ears | |
| Oh, it's nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone | |
| It's nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone | |
| Now I'm a straight-line walker in a black-out room | |
| I push a shopping cart over in an Aztec ruin | |
| With my minion fingers working for some God | |
| Who could see his own reflection in a parking lot | |
| Oh, it's nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone | |
| No, it's nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone | |
| Now I'm a priest teenager on a tower of dust | |
| I'm a dead generator in a cloud of exhaust | |
| I eat alone in the desert with skulls for my pets | |
| I rate the days, one to ten with lead cigarettes | |
| It's nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone | |
| Nausea, oh, nausea and we're gone |
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