Tiny Sick Tears - Original Version

Lyrics for Tiny Sick Tears - Original Version

You know sometimes in the middle of the night You get to feeling uptight And wish you were feelin' alright And you know you're white And you ain't got no soul And there's no one with a hole nearby And therefore in your teen-age madness and delirium You toss and turn in your sweaty little grey teenage sheets In that little room with the psychedelic posters And the red bulb And the incense And your bead collection And your country song roundup books And you cry your tiny sick tears Tiny sick tears Tiny sick tears You know, you gotto, gotto, gotto, gotto You've got to find some relief from the terrible From the terrible ache that is clutching right at your heart Because it's hurting you to your heart And you're crying tiny sick tears And you have to go downstairs Out of your bedroom Out into the hall Down to the living room Through the living room To the kitchen To the cookie jar Where you wanna get your cookies And you take the top off the cookie jar And you stick your tiny sick hand in the cookie jar And you reach around in the cookie jar To find a raisin cookie A spongy one, with the little plump raisins A little tactile sensation for your tiny sick fingers Squeeze the raisin on the cookie Pull the cookie out of the jar Stuff the raisin into your eating hole Push it all the way in your eating hole Now make your eating hole, wrap itself around the tiny sick cookie Scarf the cookie Put the lid back on the jar Go over to the ice box Open the ice box Pull out the box of milk Open the box of milk Into a triangular beak like that Pull the little triangular beak up to your drinking hole Up to your hole Pour the white fluid from the drinking box into your hole Close the beak Reinsert the box into the ice box Close the box door Walk out of the kitchen Through the living room Back up the stairs Past your sister's room Past your brother's room You take a mask from the ancient hallway Make it down to your father's room And you walk in And your father, your tiny sick father Is beating his meat to a playboy magazine He's got it rolled into a tube And he's got his tiny sick pud, stuffed in the middle of it Right flat up against the centerfold There he's, your father with a tiny sick erection And you walk in and you say, "Father, I want to kill you" And he says, "Not now son, not now" Hands up Pooo-laaah I know that it's so hard to stop playing this soul music, you know 'Cause it really, for one thing it's really easy and for another thing It wastes a lot of time while we're on stage We've learned in our travels that teenagers are ready to accept These two chords no matter how they're played (isn't it?) It makes you feel secure, 'cause you know that after, did, de, dit, de, didde The other one is gonna come on, would never fail, simple Some people would say it's bullshit, but we love it, don't we kids? Yeah Meanwhile