This truck stop: rancid gravy   A man with no hands waving   and the dog 'round my leg bumps and grinds   It rains for miles out there   on mud and tar and still air   and the fungus-lined gap between stinking towns      Pork-Eyes got him a brand new hand   He's gonna grasp you   He won't ask you   and he'll tell you it's all your fault      CHORUS:   The cup runneth over, your jaws to bless   on the white-knuckle express      She is [grace?] naked, I cannot see her face   She slides across me   I am wearing a collar and a tie      We're tuneful, cute and giving   See, that's how we make our living   In a hall full of corpses, we'd smile and bounce on   Some say it's aimless bullshit   but they come from big houses and budgets   and, although I don't look it, I'm getting really fucking old      Pork-Eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl:   He's gonna spill you, it better thrill you,   or he'll tear this place apart   Pork-Eyes! We're going up! Feet-first, feet-first!   and the legend on that girl's thigh reads "Love = Hurt = Hate"--CHORUS      Pork-Eyes, he will stroke your long hair tenderly in all the waterfront bars   where the wine and hollow talk-of-men will muffle things that really, really are   and you'll go back to your room with him on your healthy sandalled feet   to come out minutes later, bleeding, torn above, torn underneath...