Lyrics: Busdriver & Radioinactive With Daedelus. The Weather. Pen's Oil.

Radioinactive:
I want to welcome me to your country. It's far too crowded for me to be here... But i don't want to be there... But I just got there... But I don't wanna ask to be re-routed on the first day of this month's Armageddon. Writing apeeches with unleavened pencil. Rewrite the scrolls of history. In the dark with a flashlight whispering to myself, and the other diplomats from Switzerland. Me and my constituents, and Dan Rather, we like to gather and run the world with the help of a motherboard, and a back scratcher. God's computer. I drink a Vodka shooter out of an antique auctioned luger, with a bunch of cranky cop recruiters. I offer the future in an office with a t-shirt that buttons up.

Busdriver:
Just because the world runs on oil, doesn't mean oilmen should run the world. Just because the sky;s my paved road, doesn't mean you should pave a road over the sky.

Busdriver:
My mom is an enthusiastic movie actress who's in to pop-culture ethnic cleansing. Genetic blending of Mouseketeers who smile from ear to ear. For thousands of years Step-an'-Fetch-it's make the crowd cheer. Now human shield street promoters will sleep over and dry your hair with a leaf blower. If you don't know the secret code word, then don't reorder our albums that contain three leaf clovers that give relief to ulcers. Did you know American and British royal fam will lick your oil pan and equate a suicide bomber with a loyal fan? File a lawsuit. They're looking out for the interest of a small group of Illuminati lineage first-born male with horns and a tail.

Radioinactive:
Pumping gasoline... how much do you want> Fill it up and clean the windshield with a rag. You'll need a quart-of-oil. My name is Clinton Moil. I'm not from foreign soil. I've used a car antenna as a fencing foil. SOunds like your engine coil will make your grandsons attention boil. Contribute and give me the rest of the money before you go to the Statue of Liberty restroom honey. I need to go inside of the store to get you some gum cause your breath smells like the Exxon Valdez oil spill. Free with the use of a Nascar gas-card. It's a page-turner. WHere the red fern grows fuel for the bedroom stove. Rock the vote with your broccoli coat.

Busdriver:
Wouldn't you like to be posing nude in front of frozen food. Hook, line, and sinker but a bookbinder thinker might blow a fuse. When a tube sock hand puppet pontificates, Iseek a boom-box sand bucket and song-listed tapes from autistic apes who soul search without spoonfuls from a fat-free yogurt hunger strike, from a covert bunker site, testing biological warfare. Watch the TV screen spectacle until you're a squeaky-clean edible leafy green vegetable or a couch potato spud with 'say no to drugs' embroidered in your throw pillows. Cold chills go through your arthritic metacarpals. THe idea's that you'll get to move into your sandcastle by pressing buttons. Branded cattle with a set of instructions of how to turn a TV dryer and washer into a flying saucer but not without being rushed to an eye doctor, cause I'm not wrap so tight. Exacta knife cut retina of an adult industry smut-peddler's mud wrestler.

Busdriver:
Just because the world runs on oil, doesn't mean oilmen should run the world. Just because the sky's my paved road, doesn't mean you should pave a road over the sky


(Thanks to AuF 10 for these lyrics)