It's the bulky mule with range.

Spires along the bayl

Pile drivers growing tired as may reach through the clay

1,000 meters down,

The monster stirs from sleep, fossilizing the frown.

He's lived a long time, seen movies.

Who knows the law that states a curse? Buried deep in the earth cannot be left to rest.

It has to be dug up to demonstrate his evil worth.

But he's hungry, and the radio Cozby stills and gnash

The range cuts collard greens and gravy

Radio plays nighting lime epaulutes

And range cooks beans and eggs and ashen

Baby I need your loving

I need your love it He says

Empty orchestra

Give me the microphone

I know

But I can make this on my own

And the drink I mix that home T tastes better than the bottled one you sold me from the bar.

Lapsang sous shog, raspberry lemonade these twists on the every day

Sometimes he just feels like a change

Sometimes he'd like to bash the city down and run away

...