This truck stop: rancid gravy
A man with no hands waving
And the dog round my leg bumps and grinds
It rains for miles out there
On mud and tar and still air
And the fungus-lined gap between stinking towns

Pork-eyes got him a brand new hand
Hes gonna grasp you
He wont ask you
And hell tell you its all your fault

Chorus:
The cup runneth over, your jaws to bless
On the white-knuckle express

She is [grace? ] naked, I cannot see her face
She slides across me
I am wearing a collar and a tie

Were tuneful, cute and giving
See, thats how we make our living
In a hall full of corpses, wed smile and bounce on
Some say its aimless bullshit
But they come from big houses and budgets
And, although I dont look it, Im getting really fucking old

Pork-eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl:
Hes gonna spill you, it better thrill you,
Or hell tear this place apart
Pork-eyes! were going up! feet-first, feet-first!
And the legend on that girls thigh reads love = hurt = hate--chorus

Pork-eyes, he will stroke your long hair tenderly in all the waterfront bars
Where the wine and hollow talk-of-men will muffle things that really, really are
And youll go back to your room with him on your healthy sandalled feet
To come out minutes later, bleeding, torn above, torn underneath...