Standing in the shower,
I rinse my hair again,
Thinking maybe one more lather
Will cleanse me of this sin.
But deep down I know it won't,
Because all this use of soap
Doesn't clear the grease.
The cogs may squeak,
But the machine ain't broke.
And no way in hell we'll fix it,
Cause if the grind were to stop,
There'd be no rest for the wicked.
And we can't have that.

When public safety decides
To remind you properly
That your private parts
Are public property,
And to know your place
As an object ought to be
Where they slap your ass.
They say you want it, obvi'sly,
So they can have that.

Their boss tells me she's sorry,
And I believe her, though it's fleeting,
As my boss decides to steal my money;
Says to clock out before the meeting.
She tells me that I'm safe,
And then tries to take my food,
Because the company's bottom line
Will take swing at my ass, too.
But she can't have that.

I tell her to stop blowing smoke,
I won't be the butt of another joke.
She can kiss my ass.
I won't have that.