You've got your hammock strung bimbo,
you've got your magnetic hippo,
you've got your coat hanging up on Monroe,
and you've got that smell in the fuck motel.
With your gushing gas flow
and your plexi glass window,
it's a wonder that we even go.
And you know damn well it's a fuck motel
There goes postcard Romeo,
and here comes Cholo and Cojo.
You've got the wheeze beats of Asthmatico (A.T.)
and you know Guiselle in the fuck motel.