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Frank zappa (vocals) |
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Lowell george (guitar, vocals) |
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Roy estrada (bass, vocals) |
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Don preston (keyboards, electronics) |
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Buzz gardner (trumpet) |
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Ian underwood (alto saxophone) |
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Bunk gardner (tenor saxophone) |
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Motorhead sherwood (baritone saxophone) |
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Jimmy carl black (drums) |
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Arthur tripp (drums) |
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You know sometimes in the middle in the night |
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You get to feeling uptight |
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And wish you were feelin alright |
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And you know you're white |
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And you ain't got no soul |
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And theres no one with a hole nearby |
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And therefore in your teen-age madness and delirium |
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You toss and turn in your sweaty little grey teen-age sheets |
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In that little room with the psychedelic posters |
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And the red bulb |
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And the incense |
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And your bead collection |
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And your country song round up books |
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And you cry your tiny sick tears |
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Tiny sick tears |
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Tiny sick tears |
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Tiny sick tears |
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You know you gotto gotto gotto gotto |
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Youve gotta find some relief from the terrible.. |
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From the terrible ache thats clutching right at your heart |
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Because it's hurting you to your heart |
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And your crying tiny sick tears |
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And you have to go downstairs |
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Out of your bedroom |
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Out into the hall |
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Down to the living room |
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To the living room |
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To the kitchen |
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To the cookie jar |
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Where you wanna get your cookies |
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And you take the top off the cookie jar |
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And you stick your tiny sick hand in the cookie jar |
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And you reach around in the cookie jar |
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To find a raisin cookie |
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A spongy one with the little plump raisins |
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A little tactile sensation for your tiny sick fingers |
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Squeeze the raisin on the cookie |
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Pull the cookie out of the jar |
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Stuff the raisin into your eating hole |
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Push it all the way in your eating hole |
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Now make your eating hole wrap itself around the tiny sick cookie |
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Scarve the cookie |
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Put the lid back on the jar |
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Go over to the ice box |
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Open the ice box |
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Pull out the box of milk |
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Open the box of milk |
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Into a triangular beak like that |
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Pull the little triangular beak up to your drinking hole |
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Up to your hole |
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Pour the white fluid from the drinking box into your hole |
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Close the beak |
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Reinsert the box into the ice box |
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Close the box door |
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Walk out of the kitchen |
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Through the living room |
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Back up the stairs |
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Past your sisters room |
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Past your brothers room |
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You take a mask from the ancient hallway |
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Make it down to your fathers room |
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And you walk in |
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And your father, your tiny sick father |
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Is beating his meat to a playboy magazine |
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Hes got it rolled into a tube |
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And he's got his tiny sick pud stuffed in the middle of it |
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Right flat up against the centerfold |
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There he is your father with a tiny sick erection |
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And you walk in and you say: |
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Father I want to kill you |
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And he says: not now son, not now |
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Hands up!Oooo laaaa |
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I know that it's so hard stop playing this soul music, you know, cause it really . . . for one thing it's really easy . . . and for another thing: it wastes a lot of time while were on stage. we l |
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D in our travels that teenagers are ready to accept these two chords no matter how theyre played. it makes you feel secure, cause you know that after, did de dit de didde the other one is gonna |
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On. it never fails, simple . . . some people would say it's bullshit. but we love it, don't we kids? |
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Meanwhile . . . |
