I'm running out of rhymes I'm running out of art I'm running out of songs to sing About this wicked world breaking my heart I caught the smell of honey In the tragedian landfill And if the honey don't get me I know the beehive will
Into the oven you go
I'm running low on lime to put the rest of lyrics I'm dripping dry on themes and schemes To hobble with your walking stick Who's that a-nibbling at my house The kids will answer the wind, the wind
Into the oven you go
Don't give me that, little pig 'Cause you know better by now That not by the hair of your chin I'll have to blow your house down How do you like it, how do you like it Now you know now The horror is in our hands The hands that hold our hearts down
Into the oven you go
And that's the fever talking, honey âI've come to fatten you upâ âCause I'm an open book, my honey Except when the book is shut Who's that a-nibbling at my house The kids will answer the wind, the wind
Don't give me that, little pig 'Cause you know better by now That not by the hair of your chin I'll have to blow your house down Good god almighty! How do you like it, how do you like it Now you know now The horror is in our hands The hands that hold our hearts down
The beauty is unbearable We want to stretch it all out The cripple cries out to walk The songless sings their heart out Good god almighty! How do you like it, how do you like it Once you know now The horror is in our hands The hands that hold our hearts down