He's gonna win the race
With his six-string bass
You're gonna give him a chase man,
You left the devil breathless
You want him 'till I tap your tits
He's gonna caution your clits
He talked your whole cherry tree
Into growing its fruit with no pits
He's the egg that drops in your soup
He is the hand that holds the tottering scoop
His bicycle-braided beard [?]
God-d-d-damn, you prostate in fear
He's gonna win the race
With his six-string bass
He's gonna summon the hounds now
Here they come now, without a sound now
The saxophone swallowed its reed
As the drummer ran out in the lead
The piano fell on its back
As the singer fell down through the cracks
See the guitar's locked in its case
As the [?] licked the face of his bass
he's the afterlife, the dark
Knocks the rainbow right out of the park
Ultimatum, ultimatum (x10)
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