Momus - Spinoza lyrics
[Momus - Spinoza lyrics]
I walk the snigger path
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you fuck with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of
Everyone but the
Pilsbury fucking Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no cunt can be
Angry all the time
All the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right
Not even if some other cunt has
Had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in
A cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom
With extremely few laughs
That's right
There are some things in this world
Not imagined at your business school
Derek William Donaldson, perp of Fettesgate
Have pity on his victims, the frightened
Helpless policemen
Whose fate was so awful they
Had to remain silent
Their pants down in evidence
They all had vitiligo
Some say sly reptilians control
Our every wish
By application of a fishy coat
Of vinyl matt emulsion to our dreams
While others point at the pitiful
Figure of poor Sigourney Weaver
On a small electric golfcart
At Gleneagles and
Say it's all the proof you need of free will
You should be reading Spinoza instead, boss
You're better off dead, that's right, boss
If you haven't read Spinoza
You heard that right, boss
And what were you doing Wednesday night, boss
Wading through shite in hobnail boots, fool
At the slack end of the graveyard shift
Behind the old incinerator down
At Warriston Crematorium, fool
When you could've been waltzing with Matilda
With Matilda instead
Now she's dead after being forced instead
To operate an industrial-stength dildo
Several hours beyond the
Manufacturer's recommended limit
Innit, fool?
(Matilda, you killed her)
I walk the snigger path
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you fuck with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of
Everyone but the
Pilsbury fucking Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no cunt can be
Angry all the time
All the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right
Not even if some other cunt has
Had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in
A cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom
With extremely few laughs
Hobnail boots, fool, the graveyard shift
(Matilda, you killed her)
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you fuck with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of
Everyone but the
Pilsbury fucking Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no cunt can be
Angry all the time
All the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right
Not even if some other cunt has
Had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in
A cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom
With extremely few laughs
That's right
There are some things in this world
Not imagined at your business school
Derek William Donaldson, perp of Fettesgate
Have pity on his victims, the frightened
Helpless policemen
Whose fate was so awful they
Had to remain silent
Their pants down in evidence
They all had vitiligo
Some say sly reptilians control
Our every wish
By application of a fishy coat
Of vinyl matt emulsion to our dreams
While others point at the pitiful
Figure of poor Sigourney Weaver
On a small electric golfcart
At Gleneagles and
Say it's all the proof you need of free will
You should be reading Spinoza instead, boss
You're better off dead, that's right, boss
If you haven't read Spinoza
You heard that right, boss
And what were you doing Wednesday night, boss
Wading through shite in hobnail boots, fool
At the slack end of the graveyard shift
Behind the old incinerator down
At Warriston Crematorium, fool
When you could've been waltzing with Matilda
With Matilda instead
Now she's dead after being forced instead
To operate an industrial-stength dildo
Several hours beyond the
Manufacturer's recommended limit
Innit, fool?
(Matilda, you killed her)
I walk the snigger path
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you fuck with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of
Everyone but the
Pilsbury fucking Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no cunt can be
Angry all the time
All the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right
Not even if some other cunt has
Had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in
A cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom
With extremely few laughs
Hobnail boots, fool, the graveyard shift
(Matilda, you killed her)