i don't want my head to explode this tuesday morning // feed them all to the dogs Lyrics

Minimalist sweat shop 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 make me a lady bug

Or a wicker chair

Was that good?

We're rolling?

Swallowed searching for, synonyms of sweet

Coin operated sailors tiptoe around on

Ballerina feet

What's the use in callused fingers, if your hands aren't blue

Who'd-a thunk I'd ever win a hog caller trophy for 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 down by serotonin assassins

I Don't 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

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 and 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 lose the fight

What time will gravity fail me

Will I have died in submarines

Or seen what little sights to see

When can I sleep tonight

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

Feed them all to the dogs

Feed them all to the dogs

Feed them