Whip out a can of Satan
Karate chop the prevailing garbage pailing
Labelling every activity under the sun
'Cause there's batteries in the stars above
But they're running out of juice quick
So I'm writing myself a letter
Twenty years, when my stomach will be full
Of beautiful, purple meat
And my nostrils will be expanding
My eyeballs will be clamming
All the details of sales, collectable stamps
Bringing the headlines into focus
'Cause it all has some deeper meaninglessness
Wading through the brown oxygen
And the blue vericose veins

Where is the last acceptable canceled check?
Lowering down into catacombs of crap
Hustling through bird bones cactuses
Amplifying the dishwashers
Distorting full overdrive
Life with expectations expecting you
To laminate your face
Fork-lifting you into the future
Just take it back to the future
'Cause the future is a sequel to the past
But the past is a sequel that never got made
Just got shoved into limbo
And I'm working my way back to you, babe

Cashing a check for fifty cents
Hey kid, don't spend it all on yourself
Just spit on yourself
But don't excite yourself
Just sing about yourself
Sing about... boredom
Sing about boring excitement
The kind that you find peeling off the ceiling
Closing and posing for a picture of pus