JJ Sad - Rob Sonic

Wretch — head full of nicotine

Vibe dealer with the tip receipt

Hot skipper liquor sticks ravine

Sprayed with the Raid and the Listerine

Clean — now he got his beers he’s liable to hang out of the car with the

piercing rifle

Pet peeves and the bleeding Bibles

Let 'em stick two nickles on your ears and eyeholes

Cup — with the tartar chase

Bark with the varmints in the marketplace

For some it’s alarming, to the guard it’s cake

So to me and Bedelia, this is Father’s Day

Spikes with the mice and the worms and snakebit digit

Can you dig it and unearth the aphids?

Riding dirty with the clutch complaining like «Pour some sugar on this dusty

Danish!»

Seek, destroy my arm muscle

Quote the wonderboy «Keep the pinetar subtle»

Cover bolt in the fold of the eyeball buckle

Streaks on the beak of the sidecar… What’ll

It be when the cook got disease in diners that are filled with the illness of

the tea in China

Cold in the mold on the seat beside ya with a rolled up both as a brief reminder

Bitch, you gotta beef with his key components?

Get buried at the beach with the quay patrolmen

Get your geese, tell a teach when a demon’s spoken

Sleep in ya Jeep, get ya sneakers stolen

Art from the Mother of Invention harbors ill will under my electric parka

You can jet with the set and the pension, partner

But you know I’m still coming to get you, Barbara!

It’s Rob Sonic (x 4)

New Eden, the screams lap each other

Free kitty the city stab the stub

Train signal tricking these track-huggers

Got a letter for the government?

E-Fax the fuckers

Pass the butter or have it your own way, ho… Sup?

Watering pot and a gold chainsaw

Feed the fever the fact that he go stray dog

The over/under, son, or you clapped

Sport, you bore me with flash burners

See that you’re a winner or spin in your back stirrups

When it’s gassed hit a bog

He’s starting to act nervous

Walking for the wizard that’s giving these cats courage

Cold pack against his eyelid shiner

Ball broke beast leave a dime and fiver

211 on the ANT with the manic minors

With the Elvis plates, yellow tape, and Danzig lighters

See, the difference is not chance

Tears, sweat, and blood, and the sum of a cult rock fan

Skull and bone and hourly room rocks

Met her at the beach

Leaked out of the blue squad van

At my door is the crazy lady

Says she likes what she’s hearing

But the neighbors hate me

Could I turn it up until they’re raising Hades and then later play some Prince

for the 80's babies?

Heard you got it cheap but your hands are broken

Got taxed twice for the standard postage

On a glass figurine made of tokens

Sleep in your seat get your Wranglers stolen

Horse for the cattle that my posse killed slow

Tin star plastered to my sloppy silk robe

Boarding up the doors

Check the locks and windows

'Cuz I’m clearly not a zombie

But they shot me still, bro…

It’s Rob Sonic (x 4)