The leech is on my eyeball, don't ask me why.
Sometimes it moves down, to pay a visit to my tongue.
Silly little leech, you don't belong there at all.
You are supposed to be living in my lungs, robbing me of air.
/
You sing your songs about love, or hate,
I sing mine about parasites.
Write your songs about things you've lost,
I'll write mine about the things that make you shudder.
/
Over the hills and far away, I met a little roundworm.
He wasn't too pleased to see me in poor health.
Wishing he was the one who made me so ill.
I slapped the little bastard with a meat cleaver.
/
I've got a woodtick under my finger nail,
It digs like a little bitch, all night.
I awoke to find that it was gone,
But it wound up in my brain, what a pity.
/
Slivers in soft skin, nails down a chalkboard.
Things that make you feel queasy.
Maggots swimming in grease, and vomit.
How do you feel about that?
/
You sing your songs about love, or hate,
I sing mine about parasites.
Write your songs about things you've lost,
I'll write mine about the things that make you shudder.