"My girlfriend and I are quite poor. So we crash funeral gatherings for the free food.
Hell, everybody's so busy crying and consoling; they don't even notice us in the coatroom pillaging their clothes and purses.
It's too bad that you can't run very far on an orbiting space colony."
I) Garden Greenroom, Battle Creek Funeral Simulation
Type writehead collide.
Tap tap paper tie.
Prolific benign. Fill me throat cheap rye.
I breathe a funeral foyer.
Me with glue girl Margaret.
Now she's kissing me.

We drink gin till we can't see.
Pâté brunch for symposium.
Pink balloons drape the coffins.
It reads no systole.
I spill scotch on the body.
Shit smile prom night.
Rational hick life.
Self-hypnosis guide.
Exuberance lactize.
I hear a song on the radio.
So I spit on the dial.
Now she's kissing me.
We snort scotch till we're plastic.
There's a gimp with a yo-yo who say's Pepsi owns Tokyo.
He says pardon me.
Let's bury the body.
Hey, hey let's drive to the grave.
Now our cars are a gay parade.
He says, "Hey, hey.
Let's drive to the grave.
We'll bury meat on a rainy day."
Human Landfill.
I trip to walk.
Margaret hands me a Librium, I say "thanks for the confidence.
" Now she's kissing me, my flask of Chaska's empty.
I stumble up to the podium, and push down the Reverend.
They'll yell, "Eulogy".
So I pass out on the body.
Hey, hey fill in the grave.
Shovel mud on a deity.
I say, "Hey, hey.
Fill in the grave, then steal the collection tray.
Pack some mud on the pious meat.
Pack some mud on Uncle Sam.
God bless the grime.

Writer : OBERLIN, BRENT LEE
Copyright : Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.