Thank you ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Lake Bologna School of Hair Drying. As you can see, we students are busy hoeing the fields and breeding the ground with the seed of the Great Sperm Whale. But don't let this simple illusion fool you; life up here in Tibet is never what it used to be. Our students here at the identity crisis correspondence school are busy concentrating on the effects of time without duration. So join us now, as we careen through eternity in the Niña, the Ford Pinto, and the riverboat Natchez, and climb on our broom as we spread our message of dread and uncertainty from high atop the golden radio antennas of the Kremlin, straight through to the heart of the Lincoln Administration. Like a cholera epidemic from the Sahara Desert to the valleys far below, join us now as we sweep through the Milky Way, then join Art Linkletter wearing an Indian headdress in a whorehouse on Old McDonald's Farm with Fats Navarro in 1923. And, if you've got an extra seed or two to sew, you can teach the native women how to sing "E I E I O" as you're swallowing your pet rooster's head with pickle relish. So don't get left behind in the crowd! Take a tip from me and your old Dutch Uncle Suzy, and join us as we prepare to: Pay the Fiddler.

Lyrics submitted by boretronix

Flesh Balloons Of Tibet song meanings
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