Roaming down the strip    Of Venice Beach, we trip    Over tie-dyed T-shirts    Skirts and purses    Into a head shop for some papers and cigarettes    Chased by a man in a dress    A decrepit sun-baked mess    Preaching through his plastic    Vodka bottle, full-throttle towards the perplexed tourists       I must be at the finish line    Of the Westward Expansion    Queers, freaks, babes, and gypsies take a nosedive    Into the unknown       Body builders flex    Their spray-on copper pecs    Soak up the radiation    Drive-through nations get their kicks at the solar stations       Two-headed puppies race    If you've got a buck to waste    The helicopters above us    Already know us    El Chupacabra and Britney have joined us       I must be at the finish line    Of the Westward Expansion    Queers, freaks, babes, and gypsies take a nosedive    Into the unknown    Let's pack our things and go       The van's in reverse    I'll take the final verse    To let you know the days are real once again    I hope that makes you feel better       Take my hand, fuck the rest of them   We don't need the pain of money and fame    'Cause I know it never makes us feel better       I've cut them off    Those who scorn and scoff    At everything they can't comprehend    'Cause I know it'll make us sleep better    I hope that makes you feel better    I hope that makes you feel better