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 "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...