My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a
silver bar...big poop hatch with a cotton hatch - hatch holes that the
light shows in and the light shows out...and the little red fence...
and the wire and the wood...and the barbs and the berries...the tires
and the bottles and the caruponrims...and the heat swims upon its
fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into
gold... trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking
an ant's vision...and the mice played in its air holes and valves...a
ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked out
its wings and blew off to a flower...its hum heard just above the
ground...black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree
that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small
window...birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper..."My sun
is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers...rice wires
mouse tins and milk muffins...cereal and stone...matches and masks and
mace and clubs...and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a
dust jeweled penlet...cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and
find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon
midway between telegraph lines...a silver wing - a cloud - a rumbling
of cloud...a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my
wall into my ear obviously artificial...neighbors laugh through
sandwiches...Harlem babies - their stomachs explode into roars...their
eyes shiny with starvation...spreckled hula dance on my
phonograph...my door rattles windy...sand wears my rug shoeand taps on
the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear...a typical
musician's nest of thoughts through dust speakers..."Why don't you go
home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled
rock'n'roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch...the surface of a
friend...this high bookafriend laid on me...on the couch relaxing in
the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads
slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by
thought...strain on the spoon like a wheat check - check Bif - cotton
popping out of his sleeve...poop hatch open - big poop ha
81 Poop Hatch Video (MV)
Captain Beefheart And The Magic Band - 81 Poop Hatch Lyrics
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a
silver bar...big poop hatch with a cotton hatch - hatch holes that the
light shows in and the light shows out...and the little red fence...
and the wire and the wood...and the barbs and the berries...the tires
and the bottles and the caruponrims...and the heat swims upon its
fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into
gold... trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking
an ant's vision...and the mice played in its air holes and valves...a
ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked out
its wings and blew off to a flower...its hum heard just above the
ground...black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree
that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small
window...birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper..."My sun
is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers...rice wires
mouse tins and milk muffins...cereal and stone...matches and masks and
mace and clubs...and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a
dust jeweled penlet...cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and
find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon
midway between telegraph lines...a silver wing - a cloud - a rumbling
of cloud...a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my
wall into my ear obviously artificial...neighbors laugh through
sandwiches...Harlem babies - their stomachs explode into roars...their
eyes shiny with starvation...spreckled hula dance on my
phonograph...my door rattles windy...sand wears my rug shoeand taps on
the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear...a typical
musician's nest of thoughts through dust speakers..."Why don't you go
home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled
rock'n'roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch...the surface of a
friend...this high bookafriend laid on me...on the couch relaxing in
the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads
slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by
thought...strain on the spoon like a wheat check - check Bif - cotton
popping out of his sleeve...poop hatch open - big poop ha
silver bar...big poop hatch with a cotton hatch - hatch holes that the
light shows in and the light shows out...and the little red fence...
and the wire and the wood...and the barbs and the berries...the tires
and the bottles and the caruponrims...and the heat swims upon its
fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into
gold... trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking
an ant's vision...and the mice played in its air holes and valves...a
ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked out
its wings and blew off to a flower...its hum heard just above the
ground...black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree
that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small
window...birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper..."My sun
is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers...rice wires
mouse tins and milk muffins...cereal and stone...matches and masks and
mace and clubs...and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a
dust jeweled penlet...cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and
find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon
midway between telegraph lines...a silver wing - a cloud - a rumbling
of cloud...a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my
wall into my ear obviously artificial...neighbors laugh through
sandwiches...Harlem babies - their stomachs explode into roars...their
eyes shiny with starvation...spreckled hula dance on my
phonograph...my door rattles windy...sand wears my rug shoeand taps on
the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear...a typical
musician's nest of thoughts through dust speakers..."Why don't you go
home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled
rock'n'roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch...the surface of a
friend...this high bookafriend laid on me...on the couch relaxing in
the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads
slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by
thought...strain on the spoon like a wheat check - check Bif - cotton
popping out of his sleeve...poop hatch open - big poop ha