He's gonna win the race
With his six-string bass
You're gonna give him a chase, man
You left the devil breathless

You want him 'til I tap your tits
He's gonna caution your clits
He talked your whole cherry tree
Into growing its fruit with no pits

He's the egg that drops in your soup
He's the hand that holds the tottering scoop
Base bicycle braid and beer
God d-d-d-damn, you're prostrate in fear

He's gonna win the race
With his six-string bass
He's gonna summon the hounds now
Here they're comin' now
Without a sound now

The saxophone swallowed his reed
As the drummer ran out in the lead
The piano fell down on his back
As the singer fell down through the cracks
See, the guitar's locked in its case
As the lights licked the face of his bass
He's the end, the light, the dark
Knocks the rainbow right out of the park

Ultimatum, ultimatum (x6)