[Verse 1]
Locusts stole the groceries out the local farmer's market.
All God's critters hold positions; some are violent, some are victims.
Each alive is an equal and vital piston I support.
So when the piranhas honor New York,
my daddy long legs dangled and mangled for sport.
And while I bring in every dink in the kingdom with open wings,
It all boils down to them shit-soaked pigs.
The pigs (What?) the pigs (What?) the dregs of what y'all aim for.
The gluttonous muddy stomach's under the pudgy cake-hole.
Two-track brainiac using the food and payroll, then chew up and consume every cookie crumb and peso,
and place a cloven hoof on the lucrative when convenient as the bourbon odored smoker's cough smolder off the Cohiba.
If Noah had the benefit of hindsight on his ship, he coulda snatched two unicorns and left behind the motherfuckin'
[Chorus]
Pigs.
Goddamn pigs.
Pot-belly pigs.
Punch-drunk pigs.
Take money-money pigs.
Loud-mouth pigs.
Wide-load pigs.
Let's make a deal.
[Verse 2]
When all the wolves in woolly wigs have huffed and puffed and blew the bricks
the skulls of Brooklyn's cruelest pigs will rain on Fulton's newest kicks.
As mulish swine of all surrounding counties sniff the gruesomeness
we'll pass around the pineapples and pull the pins in unison.
I will gladly feed you to the breed who wants you sacrificed.
No pagan or sacrilege, just bacon for scavengers.
I will gladly seat you with the chickens, not the passengers.
Hopefully the crack in his armor spreads to his avarice.
Never that, Wilburs multiply quicker than tribbles
and hunted truffles in fistfuls
but it was all bells and whistles.
Bourgey this and bourgey that, war pig or pussy cat
Glitzy to the pork ribs, had to gold-leaf the booby traps.
Powder-pink, double-breasted mess of mud and money
waddle off the fire to make a stubborn tummy roggle,
and while I don't really know the working details of your tribes,
I know that that's one ugly fuckin' tie,
asshole.
[Chorus]
Pigs.
Goddamn pigs.
Pot-belly pigs.
Punch-drunk pigs.
Take money-money pigs.
Loud-mouth pigs.
Wide-load pigs.
Let's make a deal.
[Verse 3]
Apple in his mouth, maraschino eyes.
Party like the butcher boy's cleaver is alive.
I mosey in at 16 hours of smoke in the misty winter
to see the county fair's blue-ribbon-winner is dinner.
Then dance until the sun has kissed your blisters in the morning
as the misery was dormant and dividend crispy portions.
Corporates wanna lure 'em and they whore 'em.
Or does he whore the corporates to expand the more important forums for 'im?
Push the mortar pestle past the ordinary orchard.
When the frilly border's faded, is the product mine or yours, pig?
Mine, plus I toss a token where I go.
Directly to the worms who shovel shit and yellow snow.
This little piggy went to the market with a target
and would subsequently know the armor-piercing forks of farmers.
Final words for the finer birds taking notes:
I dig a chick in pigtails.
That's all, folks.
[Chorus]
Pigs.
Goddamn pigs.
Pot-belly pigs.
Punch-drunk pigs.
Take money-money pigs.
Loud-mouth pigs.
Wide-load pigs.
Let's make a deal.
[Kazoo solo]