Ain't Got You: I've got to find myself something to do tonight. Loiter downtown, look around, but still something's not right. I've got dollars in my pockets and gas in my tank, but something's still missing, now let me just think…. Ain't got you. Pretty girl from Florida, fixing her hair just right. Tries to do her makeup in the glow of the red stoplight. Follow her a block or two, but that ain't the cure. I may be indecisive, but there's one thing for sure…. Ain't got you. Chorus: Ain't got you. What can I do about it? Ain't got you. Tell me anything. Ain't got you. Make a demand of me. Ain't got you. What do you want me to do? I've got to cut myself some kind of deal with you. Listen to me closely and I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Hold you in my arms like a desperate fool, because that's what I am when I ain't got you.
And Then The Fireman Ate The Eggs: She was completely covered in shit and laughing in the bathtub. "What's the matter with you? Turn the water on and wash that shit off!" "I can't stop laughing. Tim loves me. I'm so happy." Tim, where had I heard that name before? Oh yes, I remember Tim. He was the one who shot the clown, poured sugar in my gas tank, and sold those awful, awful calendars. Now he had stolen the woman I loved. Damn she was gorgeous. Tim also made illegal milkshakes, heavy on the morning glory. The calendars --I saw her in one. Fuck Tim to show her like that with those pie circles. Sasha always liked circles, but I felt that he'd gone too far. She was October --we met in October under the harvest moon. Then the fire department kicked down the door. "Where's the fire?!" The littlest fireman only had one arm. He picked up a lamp and threw it into the kitchen, "I'm not fucking around!" Sasha walked in --she has perfect apple breasts-- "Oh good, the fire deapartment's here." And I knew she would leave me. She would leave me and take her ovaries with her. My eggs. I started to cry. I wanted those eggs and the fireman really wasn't fucking around and proceeded to chop things with the glee only sex-crazed nymph like Sasha could have. Neither of them understood why the eggs were important, and I would never taste those apples again. And then the fireman ate the eggs. "How do you like 'em," groaned Sasha in an unseemly manner. I wanted to die. "Harvested, scrambled --whatever." He kept jerking his limp dick with his hand; it seemed selfish. I wanted to take his weasely face and rape his mouth with a wine bottle. "Here, let me do that," said Sasha. "You don't have to do this, Sasha..." my heart was breaking. "Shut up! You creep me out! You don't own me! I don't even like you!" That was it. That was it. My babies in his belly, I cleft his ape skull in two with the fire axe. When I woke the next morning, Sasha was still naked, but the axe was strangely clean. I went outside, where I was practically beaten to death by a funeral procession playing the national anthem on the bagpipes. It was then that I stole the dalmation. January 25th is Robert Burns' birthday. The bagpipes were advancing, but I'll tell you a secret that usually only Scots know: Burns died of rabies and he was bitten by a dalmation. There were 101 of those bagpipe bastards, but I showed 'em. But I never showed Sasha again.