Quebec And Back - Busdriver

We’ve mined calculated sleaze

For countless fortnights, for this forthright

Canny canning

So we plead for what you can’t believe

And career suicide, poolside

By the candied landing

I withstood an unwound mortal coil

At the hands of deputized beauticians

This hundred pound torso broils

In the Gap ads and plastic slag of New Britain

Unmanned imaginarium, I implore you

On your gut-caked eve

Pull me from Los Angeles' large intestines

And the teeth of Charlton Heston’s fleas

The nail-biter stratagem hallmark

Constitute the rock layers of this product push

That ethical value base doesn’t change how you taste

Or the law’s arch

As known by this war headed octopus

Your rogue circles are nudged and summed

As mere collagist’s twig kraut

So sell those selves with infomercial aplomb

And a face-fitting pig snout, figure it out

Canucks!

Canuck!

Open your arms, ask yourself

«Am I dangerous or endangered?»

I may imagine my way to

Quebec and back, Quebec and back

And I may dream my way to

Quebec and back, Quebec and back

But I’ll probably die on the way to…

The jackknifing rancor of your thousand eyed face

Lends itself to militarized hobnobbing with Don Johnson

I leave cracked icing on course to some galvanized base

And I barren showy spouse for snowy alps

Cradling political asylum

Green room signee!

In piss-colored gold

Spooning chef salads onto cartoonists' cleft palettes

You’ll be detuned and dyed peach to hit the mother load

But this is what you’ll die from

«Go into the Canadian consulate like…»