Waiting List

You enter, step in the room, four-o-five My over compressed thoughts and ways make you get live You are the patient, and I, your black doctor Medical bills, insurance, cash in the ceiling Dioxalyn fingerprints here ever since I got my white suit pressed, out the cleaners X-Ray shades, with hard shoes and some razor blades Who's the brother that's sick, and needs the operation? Bullets removed from your head, Grand Central Station I gotta cut off your ear, first behind your neck Rip out the stomach, and open rectum's to dissect Shine the light, inside, roaches crawling in your throat I don't have tools, my hammer's dull, my drill is broked I'm the doctor You wait on the waiting list Patients been here since this morning I dismiss *scratched* 'This is Octagon' (repeat twice.) Watching people vomit green, my po-lig is lizard pills My office in Burbank, I hide the bodies in Beverley Hills Seeking Kimbles and bits, a girl with small tits Talking to herself, her dog, and having rabid fits Green fly soup is on the way from the kitchen, troop Looking at T.B tuberculous on the window post Ten dead dogs, a brown fox in the comatose With no reps, I put more needles in they kneecaps Some primitive screws, and my, yes and perhaps A little sprinkle of Clorox, in their vocal box Some Pepto-Bismol, Pepsi-Cola, pack of Pop Rocks Mix it all together with bugs, to change the weather You be coughing blue, with eyes like Mr. Magoo Straight up cartoon, you're bound to fall out real soon (Chorus) As you come in the bright, you ride the orange ambulance Look at widows and pell see the mental patients dance Doin six and seven, steps ladies yells dance Upside downside with walls flyin' through the hall Mr. Reeves/Mysteries with yellow bees they fly, sting your face You out there bumps, caught up with a acne case Plastic surgery, your lawyer now refer to me Giving you sketches, exquisive pictures of the gill man What's the matter, are you happy? Na you're ill man Standin' back, you choose a ticket My spiritual laws of vitamins will turn your face wicked You're invited to ride the glide to your homicide (Chorus)