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Woman, grab your children, run and hide.
Don't let it catch up with you.
You gotta fight it to stay alive,
and if it gets you, man, you're through.
It smells so rotten and rank.
Well, everybody calls it the squank.
It's sick, depressin, gettin' bigger all the time.
Don't help it any way you can.
It's grey and brown and sometimes lime
and it's spreadin' all over the land.
And soon we'll be all breathin' out of tanks
if somethin' ain't done about the squank.
The meanest thing the world's ever bred
by me and you and my kinfold too.
A monster can't live unless it's fed,
and it's being fed by me and you.
And soon it's gonna leave the world blank,
and we'll all be erased by the squank.
"Goin' Down To Mexico"
Words and music by Billy Gibbons, Bill Ham, Dusty Hill.
I was on my way down to Mexico,
there was trouble on the rise.
It was nothing more than I'd left behind,
which was much to my surprise.
I turned around and lit a cigarette
wiped the dust off of my boots.
When up ahead I saw the crowd,
I knew it was no use.
I'ts been the same way for Oh so long,
it looks like I'm singing the same old song.
A fine and fancy man was he,
doing good things for the poor.
Givin' rides in his rockin' Eighty-eight for free.
They could not hope for more.
When it came my turn he said to me,
"Have I seen your face before?"
I said, "Oh no, you must be wrong,
I'm from a distant shore.
So if you don't mind, I'll just move along
but it looks like I'm singin' the same old song."
A Nineteen Forty movie star
with a long forgotten name.
She was a sexy mess in her pleated dress,
still hangin' on to fame.
With forgotten lines she missed her cue
and left a glass of wine at home.
She was singin' the same song that I was.
Could we both be wrong?
So hand in hand we walked along,
each of us singin' the same old song.
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Rain fell this mornin', make me feel so bad
on account of my baby walked off with another man.
Like takin' eyesight from the blind man and money from the poor
that woman took my lovin' and walked on out that door.
And it sure got cold after the rain fell,
not from the sky, from my eye.
Somebody, can you tell me just what make a man feel this way?
Like river without its water, like night without a day.
And it sure 'nuff got cold after the rain fell,
not from the sky but from my eye.
If you're home early in the mornin' you hear that rain to fall,
with thunderbolts and lightning the wind begins to call.
Your worry's superficial 'cause you slept on through the night
but stormy weather keep you wond'rin' if ev'rything's all right.
And it sure 'nuff got cold after the rain fell,
not from the sky but from my eye,
not from the sky, from my eye.
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