The White Knuckle Express

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 bullshit

but they come from big houses and budgets

and, although I don't look it, I'm getting really fucking 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