The White Knuckle Express Lyrics - Fatima Mansions

This truck stop: rancid gravy 

A man with no hands waving 

and the dog 'round my leg bumps and grinds 

It rains for miles out there 

on mud and tar and still air 

and the fungus-lined gap between stinking towns 

Pork-Eyes got him a brand new hand 

He's gonna grasp you 

He won't ask you 

and he'll tell you it's all your fault 

CHORUS: 

The cup runneth over, your jaws to bless 

on the white-knuckle express 

She is [grace?] naked, I cannot see her face 

She slides across me 

I am wearing a collar and a tie 

We're tuneful, cute and giving 

See, that's how we make our living 

In a hall full of corpses, we'd smile and bounce on 

Some say it's aimless bullshit 

but they come from big houses and budgets 

and, although I don't look it, I'm getting really fucking old 

Pork-Eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl: 

He's gonna spill you, it better thrill you, 

or he'll tear this place apart 

Pork-Eyes! We're going up! Feet-first, feet-first! 

and the legend on that girl's thigh reads "Love = Hurt = Hate"--CHORUS 

Pork-Eyes, he will stroke your long hair tenderly in all the waterfront bars 

where the wine and hollow talk-of-men will muffle things that really, really are 

and you'll go back to your room with him on your healthy sandalled feet 

to come out minutes later, bleeding, torn above, torn underneath...