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He's gonna win the race |
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With his six-string bass. |
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You're gonna give him a chase, man, |
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You left the devil breathless. |
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You want him 'till I tap your tits. |
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He's gonna caution your clits. |
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He talked your whole cherry tree |
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into growing its fruit with no pits. |
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He's the egg that drops in your soup, |
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He's the hand that hold the tottering scoop, |
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Base bicycle braid and beer, |
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God d-d-d-damn, you're prostrate in fear. |
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He's gonna win the race |
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With his six-string bass. |
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He's gonna summon the hounds now, |
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Here they come now, |
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Without a sound, now. |
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The saxophone swallowed his reed |
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As the drummer ran out in the lead. |
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The piano fell down on his back, |
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As the singer fell down through the cracks. |
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See the guitar's locked in its case, |
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As the lights licked the face of his bass. |
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He's the end, the light, the dark, |
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Knocked the rainbow right out of the park. |
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Ultimatum, ultimatum (x6) |
