we should take a break from the computers and programs,
and swing it back to my place for hooters and slow jams
for once. i'm the type of guy who'll surpise you with a cool disguise
and act out fantasies with dialogue and school supplies.
south american tough nuts to crack open, but i'm determined, slim chance
to make it past the german implants and you-know-whats.
private parts, i'm hoping that you do go nuts and push while it
happens baby, 'cause i'm the bush pilot,
be the one to tell your friends that you blew the stallion,
wearing nothing but my zulu medalion,
and then maybe a pineapple sliced wedge between the labia and clitoris.
gave her a taste of the bitteress flavor in purple rain,
blues and the red whites, me and you can spend nights
alone in the dark while i'm starin' at your headlights and highbeams.
in my dreams with city streets and crosswalks,
pedestrian traffic, and my finger in the saucebox.
graphic with lost socks and underwear, a thousand kinds of calvin kleins,
i caught you in the backroom with attachments for the vacuum.
the syncronized swim team and punk rockers,
anorexic runway models with shrunk knockers,
and all of them, with wide legs, the fried eggs and honey mustard,
i'm eatin' out instead of buying groceries 'til the money's busted.
'cause i don't care, snackin' on your muffin, chewin' one more time,
like nothin' doin', it feels hot where the sun don't shine.
the way i blew your mind, you are not prepared to handle facts
in my command performance while i'm drippin' melted candle wax.
inside the beaver, got you open like a wide receiver,
i like the way she licks behind the back when she's sixty-ninin'.