J. Whitney R. Chapman
What the hell bad eggs don't smell
When glossed with sleek perfume
So whose to cry, the politicians lie
When you know damn well that they do
Well maybe they're hung up down next stop
They'll maybe turn around
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be
Oh, is it so sad when men turn bad
To rob and steal from the friends
While men who count large bank account
Make wards for their own ends
Well maybe they're hung up down next stop
They'll maybe, maybe turn around
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be
Well the grossest spew of world war two
Turns some men out inside out
Oh, but make 'em ride, make 'em ride with coal black hides
They're not so pure throughout
Well maybe they're hung up down next stop
They'll maybe, maybe turn around
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be
Well maybe they're hung up down next stop
They'll maybe, maybe turn around
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be, I want them to be
Every other way, every other way than I want them to be