They’re calling for shots of the strongest alcohol in the joint.nCareening through the night on liquids made for purifying.nThey’re making every type of effort just to score a hit of pleasure.nAnd the night reels on as the jukebox turns another track.nnTwo young lovers taste the treesnAnd give way to lust fantasiesnGive us spinal atrophynAnd we’ll tear this motherfuckin’ disco downnTame these uppers, give ‘em hell boysnHead for cover, head for covernGive heed to the stimulationnAnd we’ll take it to this shipwrecked discothequennCall it what it is, call it what it is: Murder!nGood for what it is, good for what it isnnKeep your hands clean and give it just a little more potencynnI never heard the widow die but I would like to take the credit for the bullet placed between her eyesnI never saw the pastor drink but I would like to take the credit for the serpent laced between his teethnAnd the piano player spills his heart spraying blood across the chrome of the microphonenMaking love to the porcelain teeth to the crooning of a soft guitar