[Lyric] I don’t want my head to explode this tuesday morning // feed them all to the dogs (The blunt force trauma)

Minimalist sweatshop art
Signed sad fitzgerald
Lipton chicken noodle soup
Christmas carols
She’s a back door woman
She makes me do handstands
But she’ll never give me a lady bug
Or a wicker chair

Swallowed searching for synonyms of sweet
Coin operated sailors tip-toe on ballerina feet
What’s the use in calloused fingers if the hands attached aren’t blue
Whoda thunk
They’d give a hog caller trophy to someone like you

Where’s my prescription pair of groucho glasses
It seems that the good times like to come slow as molasses
Wouldn’t be surprised to hear they got hunted by serotonin assassins

I don’t want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don’t want want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don’t want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don’t want my head to explode this tuesday morning
When will the spiders hatch today
They’re blowing hurricanes away
They’re watching hearts & palm trees sway
When will I get it right

When can I run the tape again
When can I finally have a win
With splinters shining in your shins
When can I sleep tonight

What time will gravity fail me
Will I have died in submarines
Or seen what little sights to see
When can I lose the fight

Feed them all to the dogs
Feed them all to the dogs
Feed them all to the dogs
Feed them all to the dogs
Feed them all to the dogs