Things are comin' up rosesnBut I can't stand the smellnI can't get this taste out of my mouthnnNow I'm eatin' the breakfast of championsnPost Nasal DripnI'm being fed through a straw of moral astrictionnnAnd don't smile - it's a turnoffnAnd don't flinch - when it burnsnn'Cause they'll know you're weaknAnd I'll know you're weaknAnd I just might...Tell themnnNow I'll sit right down in the back of the busnAnd talk out loudnAbout being young and so well hungnAnd just a little proudnnNow I don't beg for mercy and I don't pleadnA little fear is all I neednFrom the bowel to the bowlnYou can smell my rotting soulnnDrill a hole in my skullnVacuum the blood off my brainnSomeone blew out the candles on my urinal cakennHarry Harlow and Harry CareynBring on the reaper it's harvest timenIt's time I take the law in my handsnnCome on, torch that broken down barnacle bargenCoat that carcass with pus dischargenYou're just another weak link in the chainnYou can change your mindnBut you can't change your brainnnDo you hear me laughin', I don't think sonPeople don't know when it's time to quitnLike my daddy always told me when I was a boynYou can shit where you eatnBut don't eat where you shitnnSigmund Fraud and Sigmund FreudnI guess that's why I'm paranoidnGrab a hold of your seatnThe plot starts to thickennIt takes a lickin' and keeeps on stickin'nnNow I'm strolling down the dusty psychopathnCaught in the belly of a spiritual blood bathnFoolish things confound the wise mannHit and run in a black sedannnAaah, let's have our own battle of the bulge, babynnTake a ride on a public succubusnHit and run, hit and runnCrushed by a mental incubusnSpit and run, spit and runnnThe sky turned black, and so did my soulnA one way trip from the bowel the bowlnGonna piss my name in the snow, snownUp, up, up and away we gonnThe gourmet fed me poison, poisonnThe rat fink gave me cheese, cheesenWHy don't you stand up and fight like a mannequinnnHelen Kellyer, HellenisticnThe Greeks always did like it up the buttnAmbush your bush, Snatch up your snatchnShake that ass you little slutnnThe last thing I heard was fifty car hornsnMy Christmas wreath became a crown of thornsnI never should have let e e cummings write my resumennThings are coming up rosesnBut I can't stand the smell