|
I'm a seasick sailor |
|
On a ship of noise |
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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 |
|
It's nausea, oh nausea |
|
And we're gone |
