So what's it to you?
You're down another 8-Ball
I haven't even got a cue
And you look dreadful
When you jump to what you'll resort to
Singing, "Charles, we ain't gonna hurt you"
When there's fuck-all-else to do

You could eat the foam from the headrest
You could knock the wind out of my breath
You could kick the teeth into my head
There's no cause for concern