Lyrics

Bed sores
Snoozing off empty taunts
Terse, curt, evasive maneuvers
Chalk full of things I’m wont to do
To accommodate for you
Now put up with the fever
Automatic, cue the reaper
Stare down the volley
Piercing the helm

But no more
No more
No more
Won’t be your cratered moon
No more
No more
No more
Won’t be your busy broom
No more
No more
No more
Won’t be your cratered moon
No more
No more
No more

Begin to rescind this stolid fence
Windburn on my battered sense
I’m a working class whiz kid
In a Horatio Alger present day fictional script
What’s one got to lose as an analgesic lover
Quaaludes exchanged for b-attitudes I won’t stutter
Bonafide transducer
Obfuscate the muser

Administer the crackling rites
The cattle prod
Tattooed blow my cover
Sterilized off on/on off in a make-shift diorama

Now put up with the fever
Automatic cue the reaper
Stare down the volley
Piercing the helm

But no more
No more
No more
Won’t be your cratered moon
No more
No more
No more
Won’t be your busy broom
No more
No more
No more
Won’t be your cratered moon
No more
No more
No more

Ante up
Keep in touch
On the cusp
Belly up
Ante up
Keep in touch
On the cusp
Belly up

Bursting the ladle
Stirring the pot