A burst of static-down to the neon basement
A manic dancer-cancer pandemic
All set in panic- and twirling on the table tops
Whiskey on the rocks; I’ll do the talking Doc
The dancer’s can’t dance ‘cause I’m full of answers
And the waters not wet and the wet isn’t water
She’s blue eyed and bald, a skinny armed smoker
30 for lapping and 50 for whoring
Well the dancers have cancers and the flappers turned lappers
Just dance on your hard-ons and work through the night
Through the night, and the chemo, the fight and the static
The blue lights and panic, the turpentine bowl
The cherry topped crop top, the 90 pound morsel,
The half lash black eyelash, the swollen blue eyeball
She’s half full of sex drive, the other half poison
She can’t feel the scalpel ‘cause her skin is frozen
The money don’t add up, the cash drop dropped her off
She’s dying for freedom from cum on the walls
Well cancer cost money and honey you got none
So unscrew the corkscrew and lay down and laugh
Ten bucks in your panties won’t buy you an eight ball
So you have no prospect of life past this drywall
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