Tiny Sick Tears lyrics

Frank zappa (vocals)Lowell george (guitar, vocals)Roy estrada (bass, vocals)Don preston (keyboards, electronics)Buzz gardner (trumpet)Ian underwood (alto saxophone)Bunk gardner (tenor saxophone)Motorhead sherwood (baritone saxophone)Jimmy carl black (drums)Arthur tripp (drums)You know sometimes in the middle in the nightYou get to feeling uptightAnd wish you were feelin alrightAnd you know you’re whiteAnd you ain’t got no soulAnd theres no one with a hole nearbyAnd therefore in your teen-age madness and deliriumYou toss and turn in your sweaty little grey teen-age sheetsIn that little room with the psychedelic postersAnd the red bulbAnd the incenseAnd your bead collectionAnd your country song round up booksAnd you cry your tiny sick tearsTiny sick tearsTiny sick tearsTiny sick tearsYou know you gotto gotto gotto gottoYouve gotta find some relief from the terrible..From the terrible ache thats clutching right at your heartBecause it’s hurting you to your heartAnd your crying tiny sick tearsAnd you have to go downstairsOut of your bedroomOut into the hallDown to the living roomTo the living roomTo the kitchenTo the cookie jarWhere you wanna get your cookiesAnd you take the top off the cookie jarAnd you stick your tiny sick hand in the cookie jarAnd you reach around in the cookie jarTo find a raisin cookieA spongy one with the little plump raisinsA little tactile sensation for your tiny sick fingersSqueeze the raisin on the cookiePull the cookie out of the jarStuff the raisin into your eating holePush it all the way in your eating holeNow make your eating hole wrap itself around the tiny sick cookieScarve the cookiePut the lid back on the jarGo over to the ice boxOpen the ice boxPull out the box of milkOpen the box of milkInto a triangular beak like thatPull the little triangular beak up to your drinking holeUp to your holePour the white fluid from the drinking box into your holeClose the beakReinsert the box into the ice boxClose the box doorWalk out of the kitchenThrough the living roomBack up the stairsPast your sisters roomPast your brothers roomYou take a mask from the ancient hallwayMake it down to your fathers roomAnd you walk inAnd your father, your tiny sick fatherIs beating his meat to a playboy magazineHes got it rolled into a tubeAnd he’s got his tiny sick pud stuffed in the middle of itRight flat up against the centerfoldThere he is your father with a tiny sick erectionAnd you walk in and you say:Father I want to kill youAnd he says: not now son, not nowHands up!Oooo laaaaI know that it’s so hard 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 were on stage. we lD in our travels that teenagers are ready to accept these two chords no matter how theyre played. it makes you feel secure, cause you know that after, did de dit de didde the other one is gonnaOn. it never fails, simple . . . some people would say it’s bullshit. but we love it, don’t we kids? Meanwhile . . .
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/f/frank_zappa/tiny_sick_tears.html ]