Beck - Olde English lyrics

Bottle up pain and you were better off dead
And I would rather love your daughter
But it's gone to my head
Jukebox playing with a notion to explode
Drag racers bent on bending the road
Entertainers with no charms to speak of
A circus of fleas, a band of spooks
Neighborly ghosts looking at you
Heavy metal music like a ratchet to a truck
Glowing in the dark and you're
Just out of luck
Walking with a suitcase and a
Crack pipe to boot
Throw the dead bodies down a laundry chute
Breaking bones and shattering knives
Plow your face into a field, bury your eyes
I packed my bags, I got out of town
Yeah, I took up with a traveling show
But I couldn't stick around
'Cause the funhouse went all up in flames
And the carousel horses leaped
Out from their chains
I took a car, I was ready to drive
I put down the top
I was more dead than alive
One foot on the brakes
Yeah one foot on the gas
One foot on the brakes
A pocket calculator to count
All your mistakes
All nervous words that fall into a pile
Living in some personality with
No particular style
I speak the sound of hollow logs
And walk the dance of rags
Tombstone skateboards and underwear flags
Hide in a trailer park for a year or so
Got some groceries
Waiting for the beard to grow
The old man next door said
You won't live long i'm telling you
I said I know I always knew this was true
But I been seeing things
And I been shedding a lot of skin
And I found myself in a back
Of a burned-out fire engine
And then I took a long way at a dead end
The end of the line, born of no name
The hard luck child
Too many times caught between the extremes
Bullfight blow flies border magazines
A hundred eyes with a quarter of a brain
Rock and roll, post-coital let down again
Flamethrower TV dinner electric frozen grin
Dragstrip, bullwhip, rocket ship tailspin
Bluegrass, eyeglass, motion picture jam
Cannonball, summersault, faker in the can
I'm wound up, plastic wino breathing haze
Umbrella shadows white light daze
Convenient store fruit pie deranged
Men and more
One-armed folksinger chewing on the floor
Ragtime whiskeyman, bottle of snuff
Box of junk and a crocket of stuff
Chillin' like Gilligan