Lyrics Busdriver – She–Hulk Dehorning The Illusionist
Text:
I am, dehorned, by, ego-driven
Evil women, who, disturb, my peaceful living
Even though, I countered her, every eye flutter
My confident, pimp game, is reduced, to a shy mutter
Every dude, wants her to, play, the skin flute
We dated, and she acted, like she was staring, in a film shoot
How bout a peck? A kiss? A slurp? Or something
But she taunts me, being raunchy, and sticks out, her tongue ring
I forgot her, eye color, when I tried to, dry hump her
Torturing me, gives her, personal, thrills, don’t forget to take, birth control, pills
Seeing her, when your, dirty, itchy, bed sheets, they’ll be seen, corky, by the sex geeks
At least, I’m still loved, by all, record players
But a sprinkle, of sawdust, from salt, and pepper shakers
Cause its over, flowing, toilets, in my heart
And I bumped my head, on my failed, relationship pie chart
You’ll also wanna share, a personal pan pizza
When aside, a personal band leader
The dirty thought makes you recoil
And you wish a surgeon, would remove my gland, with tweezers
But there’s no use, the very notion urges you to hump the disk changer
Ha, I should come with a disclaimer
May cause emotional attachment and suspenseful cliff hangers
I mean really, if I could only kiss strangers
I know my, breath never hissed a pilot light
I’m just a silent sight
Loser! Wimp! Are some, of the pet names
She belittles me, then rewards me
I’m a boy toy, on a test range
You were sensitive, lush
You weird and crazy, bearded lady
Who’s condemned me, to endless hours of soft porn
Meeting her in traffic, I’m resorting to honk horns
I go into movies all by myself and climb into a tub of pop corn
She joined the screen actors guild
If she won’t fill the dream catcher, I will
Frolicking in the green pastures fields
I took my love song a did a remastered reel
I’m a guinea pig in hamster wheels
I bought an airplane ticket, that goes exactly to where
My court orders randomly and I die with every cold breath of air
And every combed hair, resonates how much this girl don’t care
What a lousy place for a smiley face
On your head? On the front of your mind?
It should be on your cunt or behind
Because that’s the only place I found any kind of warm sentiment
Some how I weaved the myth
Of a decent person around your good looks
But you’ve got the sense of a guy cook book
And you treat dinner dates
Like fucking table tennis
Your fucking labels endless
And leads to a corridor
And you’ve got a playful fetish
Of having your anal crevice
Rammed in by a four door sedan Full of, football players…
