He's gonna win the race With his six-string ba** You're gonna give him a chase man, You left the devil breathless You want him 'till I tap your tits He's gonna caution your clits He talked your whole cherry tree Into growing its fruit with no pits He's the egg that drops in your soup He is the hand that holds the tottering scoop His bicycle-braided beard [?] God-d-d-damn, you prostate in fear He's gonna win the race
With his six-string ba** He's gonna summon the hounds now Here they come now, without a sound now The saxophone swallowed its reed As the drummer ran out in the lead The piano fell on its back As the singer fell down through the cracks See the guitar's locked in its case As the [?] licked the face of his ba** he's the afterlife, the dark Knocks the rainbow right out of the park Ultimatum, ultimatum (x10)