Benway.
You're making me itch.
Won't you give me a fix?
You've gotta believe me doc I'm very sick.
Look at Willy Lee.
Staring at his shoes again.
Life's, never boring.
Not when he's probing for a vein on a junk sick morning.
Baby screams, hard to hear, you're lowered through the floor.
Stuck in throat, ghastly note, the insect in your ear.
Benway.
You're making him itch.
Won't you give him a fix?
Gotta see him doc, he's very sick.
Look at Willy Lee.
Staring at his hoes again.
Treasured rust, a gold flush.
When it's seeping from the brain and the body is mourning.
Second run cottons trace the bones of a fix.
Second run cottons trace the bones of a fix.
Benway.
("Make an insicion Dr. Limpf, I'm going to massage the heart!")
Second run cottons trace the bones of a fix.
Second run cottons trace the bones of a fix.