Testo: Busdriver & Radioinactive With Daedelus. The Weather. Carl Weathers.

Busdriver & Radioinactive:
TOday's weather is a glazed beverage with a grave emphasis on the strange letter bridge and the dames we assist when we exchange leadership. Put the change in the meter bitch. Y'all can eat some zebra shit with a fork and knife and tartar sauce. It's the corporate plight of Haagen-Dazs, to pour Coors Light on the cotton clothes.

Busdriver:
Of people who bring flat screens to book burnings, and put earning in the soiled pampers of oil canvas painters.

Radioinactive:
Painting pictures of people with mixtures of evil watered down with a gospel crown. I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

Busdriver:
I don't think we're in TImbuktu. Get a lip-tuck tit reduction big-butt-lip-o-suction at the annual bible luncheon.

Radioinactive:
I pull stunts in, with an eyeball crunched grin. Why not wear a waterproof necktie to the function. Do what you gotta do. Go to Lake Havasu to cook some rabbit stew and have an old lady gab at you.

Busdriver & Radioinactive:
The weather will talk your head off. THe parking attendant will park your attention span against the demented plan of a white ninja in japan with Red Cross medical coverage. Our legible smudges are well received like health conscious women dressing their husbands, drinking begetable slushes. I disassemble my musket over an instrumental of Milli Vanilli. The caterpillars are willing to kill me. The castle builders are building a villa for women and children are living in limited numbers with primitive plumbers. An innocent mother is giving a pilgrim some supper.

Busdriver & Radioinactive:
Today's forecast is that you'll be suffering a pain in your lower back. You can not get on this plane without a boardin pass. You should drink a quart of gas. It's interesting how nuclear warheads laugh, as Hercules' forehead is smashed on a wall of weather. That's why we wear these koala sweaters like they were tailored. Let's save a whaler from from major failure in a Vegas trailer. Page your dealer. Pay the waiter for a plate of tatters. Irritate your neigbors by real estating acres near a lake where ravers get earaches, from lasers. Bearded naked bathers get near the sacred savior to hear the tape deck player cold front. We're to old to smoke blunts, so we promote funk that make's adults hump. We catapult jump


(Thanks to AuF 10 for these lyrics)