We're going to shave down the cat and fly low over Chubbina, where the sun burns fat and the bed rocks slow la matina.
If we play our cards right with the set up of lights in the spare room, we might take off quite soon while our love's still in bloom and delay our doom.
I'm in an ocean of debt, it's a mess, I'm depressed and can't buck it. Why don't we flee to the South on the credit that’s left and say “Fuck it! I don't give a shit.”
We'll go bananas in the sun, me playing a uke[lele], you hot saucing the buns,
Because I just want to play with you.
Loving you is the hardest task I have ever set myself to - not so much the loving itself but keeping all the loving to you.
Pull on your tightest bikini greens, I'll wear my loosest No Excuses jeans.
This vision must be re-enacted in sand untouched by honkies, save for us, you hunderstand.
And if I were that sand windwipped across you lusciously buff hips, I would love that land with my little sand hands and my rough lips.
My rough lips.