The Squeezing Stones

Lyrics

Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed rock juice?
(Yes, I sure fukking would.)
Then come over here and touch the splintered sock goose.
(Hey, that sounds so fukking good.)

Pop! Pop! Pop my vagina at the crocodile carriage in the center of town.
Stop! Stop! Stop Grandpa China from licking picnic tables when his tongue is brown.
Gallop! Gallop! Gallop like zucchinis with irregular martinis in the private sky.
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch the munchie puddles if you don't have any troubles, and your veins are dry.

Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed rock juice?
(Yes, I sure fukking would.)
Then come over here and touch the splintered sock goose.
(Hey, that sounds so fukking good.)

Squish! Squish! Squish your ideas into tiny little Kias with the penis-skin doors.
Crack! A-lack! Crack-a-lack tall cowboys who assemble all the Pow Toys for the rhubarb floors.
Bump! Buh-bump! Buh-bumpitty Albert's turnstile at the casual walrus fur-pile next to Puffy Mike's.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle those piano keys - those ebonies and ivories - that's what the Daddy Clown likes.

Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed rock juice?
(Yes, I sure fukking would.)
Then come over here and touch the splintered sock goose.
(Hey, that sounds so fukking good.)

Belly-crawling all the way through the Pubic Forest.
Smelly-calling old, burnt doctors with sour hair.
Donkey-flapping quality bads,
And giving gonorrhea to our Portuguese dad's.
Petting the Teacher's Pet's Vet, because we just don't care.

Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed rock juice?
(Yes, I sure fukking would.)
Then come over here and touch the splintered sock goose.
(Hey, that sounds so fukking good.)