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 He's gonna grasp you He won't ask you and he'll tell you it's 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 We're tuneful, cute and giving See, that's how we make our living In a hall full of corpses, we'd smile and bounce on Some say it's aimless bullshit but they come from big houses and budgets and, although I don't look it, I'm getting really fucking old Pork-Eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl: He's gonna spill you, it better thrill you, or he'll tear this place apart Pork-Eyes! We're going up! Feet-first, feet-first! and the legend on that girl's thigh reads