| 歌曲 | The Man Who Rolls |
| 歌手 | Shudder to Think |
| 专辑 | 50,000 BC |
| 作词 : Wedren | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| You can find me hanging from a tree | |
| My teeth are fit with mandibles | |
| and a dangled fig | |
| I duly comb the sea-foam | |
| till you wash home | |
| for good- | |
| nesssakes alive honey-bee | |
| I am he | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Do you want to check the tag? (no,no) | |
| The finger sticking animals | |
| Do you want to drag? | |
| I don't like to see blood. | |
| Are you yellow? | |
| Goodnesssakes alive mother hen | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Tied up | |
| warming trouble | |
| There's a confit of mud | |
| my | |
| dew-eyed lady double | |
| with two right eyes you'll never find yourself | |
| I see you struggle | |
| A confit of men found | |
| teed off the brow | |
| Don't fill up on candy | |
| You've really gotta hold me | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| You can find me hanging from a tree | |
| My teeth are fit with mandibles | |
| and a dangled fig | |
| I duly comb the sea-foam | |
| till you wash home | |
| for good- | |
| nesssakes alive honey-bee | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Tied up | |
| warming trouble | |
| There's a confit of mud | |
| my | |
| dew-eyed lady double | |
| over two right eyes you'll never find yourself | |
| I see you struggle | |
| A confit of men proud | |
| Stay up somehow | |
| Don't fill up on candy | |
| You've really got soul | |
| Dew-eyed lady double | |
| with too wide eyes | |
| you always see through shell | |
| to pearl blue bubble | |
| b-b-bursting hives | |
| through the surface seams | |
| to a fell of steeple rubble | |
| there's a coffin grate | |
| in a self-enstated strewn up gated hovel | |
| with a goo-eyed baby | |
| born of maybe | |
| cellofeighning love | |
| oh | |
| did you hear that one | |
| it's the joke of ages | |
| dew-eyed lady double | |
| with too wide eyes | |
| you always see through shell | |
| to pearl blue bubble | |
| b-b-bursting hives | |
| through the surface seams | |
| to a fell of steeple rubble | |
| there's a coffin grate | |
| in a self-enstated strewn up gated hovel | |
| with a goo-eyed baby | |
| born of maybe | |
| cellofeighning love |
| zuò cí : Wedren | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| You can find me hanging from a tree | |
| My teeth are fit with mandibles | |
| and a dangled fig | |
| I duly comb the seafoam | |
| till you wash home | |
| for good | |
| nesssakes alive honeybee | |
| I am he | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Do you want to check the tag? no, no | |
| The finger sticking animals | |
| Do you want to drag? | |
| I don' t like to see blood. | |
| Are you yellow? | |
| Goodnesssakes alive mother hen | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Tied up | |
| warming trouble | |
| There' s a confit of mud | |
| my | |
| deweyed lady double | |
| with two right eyes you' ll never find yourself | |
| I see you struggle | |
| A confit of men found | |
| teed off the brow | |
| Don' t fill up on candy | |
| You' ve really gotta hold me | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| You can find me hanging from a tree | |
| My teeth are fit with mandibles | |
| and a dangled fig | |
| I duly comb the seafoam | |
| till you wash home | |
| for good | |
| nesssakes alive honeybee | |
| I am the man that rolls | |
| Tied up | |
| warming trouble | |
| There' s a confit of mud | |
| my | |
| deweyed lady double | |
| over two right eyes you' ll never find yourself | |
| I see you struggle | |
| A confit of men proud | |
| Stay up somehow | |
| Don' t fill up on candy | |
| You' ve really got soul | |
| Deweyed lady double | |
| with too wide eyes | |
| you always see through shell | |
| to pearl blue bubble | |
| bbbursting hives | |
| through the surface seams | |
| to a fell of steeple rubble | |
| there' s a coffin grate | |
| in a selfenstated strewn up gated hovel | |
| with a gooeyed baby | |
| born of maybe | |
| cellofeighning love | |
| oh | |
| did you hear that one | |
| it' s the joke of ages | |
| deweyed lady double | |
| with too wide eyes | |
| you always see through shell | |
| to pearl blue bubble | |
| bbbursting hives | |
| through the surface seams | |
| to a fell of steeple rubble | |
| there' s a coffin grate | |
| in a selfenstated strewn up gated hovel | |
| with a gooeyed baby | |
| born of maybe | |
| cellofeighning love |