They’re calling for shots of the strongest alcohol in the joint.   Careening through the night on liquids made for purifying.   They’re making every type of effort just to score a hit of pleasure.   And the night reels on as the jukebox turns another track.      Two young lovers taste the trees   And give way to lust fantasies   Give us spinal atrophy   And we’ll tear this motherfuckin’ disco down   Tame these uppers, give ‘em hell boys   Head for cover, head for cover   Give heed to the stimulation   And we’ll take it to this shipwrecked discotheque      Call it what it is, call it what it is: Murder!   Good for what it is, good for what it is      Keep your hands clean and give it just a little more potency      I never heard the widow die but I would like to take the credit for the bullet placed between her eyes   I never saw the pastor drink but I would like to take the credit for the serpent laced between his teeth   And the piano player spills his heart spraying blood across the chrome of the microphone   Making love to the porcelain teeth to the crooning of a soft guitar