She-hulk Dehorning The Illusionist Lyrics & Chords By Busdriver

I am, dehorned, by, ego-driven,
Evil women, who, disturb, my peaceful living,
Even though, I countered her, every eye flutter,
My confident, pimp game, is reduced, to a shy mutter,
Beautiful, specimen, in, a swim suit
Every dude, wants her to, play, the skin flute,
We dated, and she acted, like she was staring, in a film shoot,
How bout a peck? A kiss? A slurp? Or something,
But she taunts me, being raunchy, and sticks out, her tongue ring,
I forgot her, eye color, when I tried to, dry hump her,
Torturing me, gives her, personal, thrills, don't forget to take, birth control, pills
Seeing her, when your, dirty, itchy, bed sheets, they'll be seen, corky, by the sex geeks,
At least, I'm still loved, by all, record players
But a sprinkle, of sawdust, from salt, and pepper shakers,
Cuz its over, flowing, toilets, in my heart,
And I bumped my head, on my failed, relationship pie chart

You'll also wanna share, a personal pan pizza ,
When aside, a personal band leader,
The dirty thought makes you recoil,
And you wish a surgeon, would remove my gland, with tweezers,
But there's no use, the very notion urges you to hump the disk changer
Ha, I should come with a disclaimer,
May cause emotional attachment and suspenseful cliff hangers,
I mean really, if I could only kiss strangers,
I know my, breath never hissed a pilot light,
I'm just a silent sight,
Loser! Wimp! Are some, of the pet names,
She belittles me, then rewards me,
I'm a boy toy, on a test range,
You were sensitive, lush,
When you broke me off, you gave me correct change
You weird and crazy, bearded lady,
Who's condemned me, to endless hours of soft porn,
Meeting her in traffic, I'm resorting to honk horns,
I go into movies all by myself and climb into a tub of pop corn,
She joined the screen actors guild,
If she won't fill the dream catcher, I will,
Frolicking in the green pastures fields,
I took my love song a did a remastered reel,
I'm a guinea pig in hamster wheels,
I bought an airplane ticket, that goes exactly to where,
My court orders randomly and I die with every cold breath of air
And every combed hair, resonates how much this girl don't care,

What a lousy place for a smiley face,
On your head? On the front of your mind?
It should be on your cunt or behind,
Because that's the only place I found any kind of warm sentiment
Some how I weaved the myth
Of a decent person around your good looks,
But you've got the sense of a guy cook book.
And you treat dinner dates,
Like fucking table tennis,
Your fucking labels endless,
And leads to a corridor,
And you've got a playful fetish,
Of having your anal crevice,
Rammed in by a four door sedan Full of, football players...