So, reaching an all time low for a fossil
When do you intend to show your apostle
Rampage, bad for the status quo
And the screaming ants below.
Ends pulsating like a lens in the drier,
Sleep, counting your sheep by tens, you retire.
Cymbals crash as your vision bends
And the world above descends.
I met business temp whose name gave me a rash.
It was a German word that meant, "great piles of ash."
But if I close my eyes and build a wall of clay,
These things will probably come away.
Come away, make them come away.
I don't mind impertinence as long as you obey.
Make them stay, don't let them go astray.
If you don't want to cross my bridge,
I guess that I've got nothing left to say.
Fade into the third crusade like a tumor
Turks bothering clerks who payed the consumer
All them trying to play Old Maid
With the key from your grenade.
My father's uncle is the bastion of respect.
He shared a bunkbed with the President-elect.
But if I close my eyes and think about croquet,
These things will probably come away.
Come away, make them come away.
I don't mind your driving if I get the right-of-way.
Make them stay, don't let them go astray.
But if you don't want to cross my bridge,
I guess that I should let it go
The song should end, there's nothing left to say.
No recording available
Copyright 1992 Zach London