Well you could always count on your friends to get you high, that's right
And you could always count on the 'rents to get you by, you could fly
And now they make you piss into a plastic cup and give it up
The cup will probably be here long after we're gone - what's wrong?
They'll probably dig it up a thousand years from now and how
They'll probably wonder what the hell we used it for and more
This must be the cup the king held every night as he cried
Well maybe you should go out and write your own damn song and move on