I hear "oohs!" and "ahhs!", when I jump out my garage.
People treat me like I'm dying for a cause 'cause I believe in God,
Santa Clause, and The Easter Bunny.
I'm hanging out with Lady Luck, and feeding her when her beaver's hungry.
Don't need your money, don't need your company.
Do need that filthy middle finger out my cup of tea.
Like, if it takes one to bleed,
And two to make the bleeding stop;
I'd rather leave a trail of blood.
Now it's two-thousand-and-,
And I'm still kicking like old habits.
Still sticking with no address or mattress.
Now, half this life spent in these skate shoes,
Been spent walking to the beat of a breakthrough.
I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers,
Make a new fan, cut a rug and dupe later.
New raider of the lost breaks and bass lines,
Trying to discover some peace on the freight lines.
Nine hollows and I'm feeling like a fifty-spot.
Channeling my lady luck, see what that gypsy's got.
She's looking up today, smiling at the thunderstorm,
Playing her tiny violin to keep my hunger warm.
While a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons,
I write my songs singing, "So long!" to all the heathens.
Like, "Greetings Steve. Good riddance."
It's time for your bad come-back,
So come back to the:
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics,
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
While I address my Minnesota ethics.
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don't respect it.
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric.
So who's that peeking in my window? Right now!
I don't know, but I can see the interest in their eyebrow.
I vow to the dying day of my inner works:
My medium is extra-large, until I'm in the dirt.
My fingers hurt from all these over-anxious brushstrokes.
Sometimes I'm not looking, I'll wind up, and cut throats.
Just jokes man, I'll set em' all aside soon,
For now they're my baby, the centerfold.
So from that, circus cannon that you shot me through,
To smoking poison in the boy's room with the Motley Crue.
Talk me through this!
With the coffee, or the newest fixative
And you'll just say the music's a risk to his health,
But he sticks to his guns, 'til they stick to you.
Keeps twisting his tongue, and it'll spit to you.
Sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions,
But he don't sleep, 'cause sleep is the Reaper's cousin.
And he's a holy ghost hunter, Steve Perry street talker,
Eating some moldy toast under my Beef Whopper.
Small city beat-jocker addicted to the hocking spit.
Off-beat beatboxer who thinks he's rocking it.
Hip-hop-kin's kid with a mouth full of dynamite,
Checking myself for ticks, and Jimmy Caster troglodytes.
I hide the fight and show my best impression of...
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics.
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
While I address my Minnesota ethics.
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don't respect it.
[Black rose! Little, little lady!]
My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric.