Rosen aus dem Süden, Op. 388: Das Spitzentuch der Konigin: Rosen aus dem Suden (Roses from the South), Op. 388

歌詞

Things are comin' up roses But I can't stand the smell I can't get this taste out of my mouth Now I'm eatin' the breakfast of champions Post Nasal Drip I'm being fed through a straw of moral astriction And don't smile - it's a turnoff And don't flinch - when it burns 'Cause they'll know you're weak And I'll know you're weak And I just might...Tell them Now I'll sit right down in the back of the bus And talk out loud About being young and so well hung And just a little proud Now I don't beg for mercy and I don't plead A little fear is all I need From the bowel to the bowl You can smell my rotting soul Drill a hole in my skull Vacuum the blood off my brain Someone blew out the candles on my urinal cake Harry Harlow and Harry Carey Bring on the reaper it's harvest time It's time I take the law in my hands Come on, torch that broken down barnacle barge Coat that carcass with pus discharge You're just another weak link in the chain You can change your mind But you can't change your brain Do you hear me laughin', I don't think so People don't know when it's time to quit Like my daddy always told me when I was a boy You can shit where you eat But don't eat where you shit Sigmund Fraud and Sigmund Freud I guess that's why I'm paranoid Grab a hold of your seat The plot starts to thicken It takes a lickin' and keeeps on stickin' Now I'm strolling down the dusty psychopath Caught in the belly of a spiritual blood bath Foolish things confound the wise man Hit and run in a black sedan Aaah, let's have our own battle of the bulge, baby Take a ride on a public succubus Hit and run, hit and run Crushed by a mental incubus Spit and run, spit and run The sky turned black, and so did my soul A one way trip from the bowel the bowl Gonna piss my name in the snow, snow Up, up, up and away we go The gourmet fed me poison, poison The rat fink gave me cheese, cheese WHy don't you stand up and fight like a mannequin Helen Kellyer, Hellenistic The Greeks always did like it up the butt Ambush your bush, Snatch up your snatch Shake that ass you little slut The last thing I heard was fifty car horns My Christmas wreath became a crown of thorns I never should have let e e cummings write my resume Things are coming up roses But I can't stand the smell