Outside the cafe by the crack of factory
You were practicing a magic trick
And my thoughts got rude as you talked
and chewed on the last of your pick and mix
So you're mistaking if you're thinking
that I ain't been cock -holed before
As you bit into your strawberry lace
And then I flipped your attention
in the form of a gubstopper
Is all you had left and it was
Your pastimes consisted of the strange
And I loved that little game
you had called crying lightning
The next time that I caught
it was on its way to meet you
Thinking of excuses to postpone
You never looked like yourself on the side
But your pro file could not hide
the fact you knew I was ap
With folded arms you occupied
Saw them pump your chest out
like you never lost a war
And though I tried so not to suffer
the indignity of reaction
There was no cracks to crack,
And I hate that little game
And how you like to aggravate the icky man
But not half as impossible
Your past times consisted of the strange,
And I hate that little game
Your pastimes consisted of the strange
And I hate them, they're so game,