This truck stop: rancid gravy
A man with no hands waving
And the dog 'round my leg bumps and grinds

It rains for miles out there
On mud and tar and still air
And the fungus-lined gap between stinking towns


Pork-Eyes got him a brand new hand
He's gonna grasp you

He won't ask you
And he'll tell you it's all your fault


CHORUS:
The cup runneth over, your jaws to bless
On the white-knuckle express


She is [grace?] naked, I cannot see her face
She slides across me

I am wearing a collar and a tie

We're tuneful, cute and giving

See, that's how we make our living
In a hall full of corpses, we'd smile and bounce on
Some say it's aimless bull%#@!

But they come from big houses and budgets
And, although I don't look it, I'm getting really $#&@ing old


Pork-Eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl:
He's gonna spill you, it better thrill you,
Or he'll tear this place apart

Pork-Eyes! We're going up! Feet-first, feet-first!
And the legend on that girl's thigh reads "Love = Hurt = Hate"--CHORUS


Pork-Eyes, he will stroke your long hair tenderly in
all the waterfront bars
Where the wine and hollow talk-of-men will muffle things

that really, really are
And you'll go back to your room with him on your healthy sandalled feet
To come out minutes later, bleeding, torn above, torn underneath...