Singing sick nights, and dancing gaily with sour mash/ Such robust binges never relent/ Hepatic tissue ferments/ And bleeding ulcers cannot repent/ Richard, you bastard, you never will know/ How you maliciously throttle my heart/ The pendulum is swinging your way now, though, my dear/ Inebriation forbids you to see it/ (They say there's been a death in the family)/ "You're all gonna die."/ They pound on me ceaselessly, the mother and father/ They show a sad shrinkage in wingspan/ They turn from a son they've long ago buried/ Whose rationale falls on them deadpan:/ "You're all gonna die. / You're all gonna die, and I'm gonna laugh/ You didn't have the hindsight to do the math/ You've never had the pleasure of doing business/ With an ill-famed disease/ What can I tell you? What do I say? Mother, I live! Father, I live! ! ! / The tragic war stories/ Flooding behavioral therapy/ It takes more than dose after dose of 'tough'/ To stop the symptoms of spitting up lies and flakes of lung/ It's when you find yourself two short hours/ From a liquor store that your disbelief shows you're impenetrable/ As impenetrable as an eggshell/ I saw the blooms of so many flowers/ Sprout from the chests of statisticized corpes." / I saw the blooms of so many flowers/ Sprout from the chests of statisticized corpes. (x2)