Из альбома: Mecca
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