I'm running out of rhymes
I'm running out of art
I'm running out of songs to sing
About this wicked world breaking my heart
I caught the smell of honey
In the tragedian landfill
And if the honey don't get me
I know the beehive will

Into the oven you go

I'm running low on lime
to put the rest of lyrics
I'm dripping dry on themes and schemes
To hobble with your walking stick
Who's that a-nibbling at my house
The kids will answer the wind, the wind

Into the oven you go

Don't give me that, little pig
'Cause you know better by now
That not by the hair of your chin
I'll have to blow your house down
How do you like it, how do you like it
Now you know now
The horror is in our hands
The hands that hold our hearts down

Into the oven you go

And that's the fever talking, honey
I've come to fatten you up
'Cause I'm an open book, my honey
Except when the book is shut
Who's that a-nibbling at my house
The kids will answer the wind, the wind

Don't give me that, little pig
'Cause you know better by now
That not by the hair of your chin
I'll have to blow your house down
Good god almighty! How do you like it, how do you like it
Now you know now
The horror is in our hands
The hands that hold our hearts down

The beauty is unbearable
We want to stretch it all out
The cripple cries out to walk
The songless sings their heart out
Good god almighty! How do you like it, how do you like it
Once you know now
The horror is in our hands
The hands that hold our hearts down

Into the over you go.