The u-boat pirate in the nuclear suit's cool,
but the photograph in my chest's exposed,
so let him come over and have a look at my chart,
put a tube in me and turn the bed down.
i'm not getting the blues, i've got the spots and i'll believe it
when i see it on the beach with politics and superstition,
boiling over on me from the pot of cherry bombs and scuba divers in the sun
at the equator or in a small hotel room with a hundred humidifiers.
the truth about radiation is: just imagine how the bomb feels,
remember your mom when you're as unspectacular as the white boy slave song.
white boys ain't got no slave song, so we invented radiation.
who other than us wonder bread shit heads would go out and build an h-bomb...
white boy slave song.
when we put you in the ocean, we took care of the prescriptions,
your yearbook, bookshelf, and old radio,
stubs of pencils from 1990,
the screw in your right arm, your blood, and your bottles,
your credit card collection and your out of court settlement,
medallions and trinkets, your day of the dead banquet table
and all these last little pieces of yard sale.
i'm lost in boston with a head full of xanax
while they're in the living room watching your tv.
