Lyrics:

(NOTE: These are the official lyrics, right out of the lyric booklet. Please do not change them.)

Let me put you up on Bob's donuts, controller of the warm deep fryer that charms cobras, mostly it was aggravated ulcers over goat's legs, will they go for maple, custard, buttermilk or wolfs bane? hm, late after your cinderella pulsate and crash I was rotating casts, picture if you will a witching hour on week night in the trenches, where paranoia dead-ends in a bright fluorescent heaven, with sprinkles, I know right? yum. whether tummy ache or fever, keep the funnel cake I'm honey glaze in vitro, in the company of similar believers, sleepless, who hear the walls breath and foam at the facial features, now the yeast, a phoenix in the partially hydrogenated, equal parts flower, faith, healing, might replace your previously nominated Jesus, but only if you privy to the following secrets of all secrets

I boil oil too, not for scarfing, for cc's of Japanese innovation that screech into free parking, purple heart and 2nd chin that beseech him to squeeze the carbs into the motherboard, you can chew the eucharist in cruller form, locally a seedy Danish underworld is bustling where jelly's not a celebrated stuffing it's a puppet string, pluck, nose for canola, 5 cow stomachs like a mime with a rope going nowhere, fast, right hand of god on my shoulder, crows feet swollen, dopey, combing apple fritters over with folk of opposing cultures, baby sitter cop thief reverend, body glitter, botched c-section, bronze teeth, each progressively more sequestered, yet if threatened will defend the rasin bread as codefendants, some lose religion or view it as superstition, you can tell a friend if you are down to kill them

The fat boys are back, foam fingers over open arms, to feverishly reclaim their stomachs from golden jars, and stagger through the pulse of the gulch on a builder's dividends, hiding high behind his guilty powdered-sugary fingerprints, seething eventide fever, sidewalk feeling a little dicey, I'm snake-eye straight to the cake's icing, might, fortune-teller up your favorite paper tiger stripe, great, grace invaders, the first-name basis patron haters, who compromise the pilot lights and flavors, silent night, holy night, invite the pious out the pagan, midnight kitchen doors un-caging and enablers like butchers in bloody aprons, can I get a fucking amen? AMEN, hazelnut raiders of the lost, navigate consecutive pastries like stations of the cross, no name no day job, know the folk where it virgin mary toast by the loaf, thanks bob

Shh, every night at 12 they would march out from the back, with a tray of raw dough for the pool of hot fat, show up around 1 never get your god back

If you're just tuning in, walk into the light