Hide me in the back room, tell me when it's over

 

I'm tired of being played like a violin

 

I want to be the king

 

I see a bad moon rising - I see trouble on the way

 

I sure do like those Christmas cookies, sugar

 

Always pushing you away from me but you come back with gravity

 

Redistribute their flesh

 

Oh, there ain't nobody here but us chickens

 

A fruitcake laid out in the mausoleum