Cut down see saw
Needs some new glare
Take me to every one's there
If I could write you a love poem, I would
But the pope street poked me again

So please leave me here
So I can try
To blow my baby's mind

In the years of panic
With the fears of herbage
I've had it
Please blow your horn
Yellow sandwich submarine
Makes me cry like a fly

With a weasy spoon
So sleep on the kitchen
Hey Joel, where you going with that?
Where you going, where you going?
Oh, with that

But the pope street poked me again
Poked me again
Pope street poked me again
Oh, poked me again

Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead
Rock is dead, rock is dead

Copyright: DOMINO PUBLISHING COMPANY
Writer(s): Tim Presley, Ty Segall