[ Featuring the Defenders of the Tijuana Three-Toed Sloths ]
And the job is never done, for a defender
And the work flows steady through the pipes, like so much sewage flushed down the toilet of the universe
And the wives, they sit at home, OH! missing their husbands
And the wives, they sit at home, darning their socks and sweaters for when they return
For now, they battle OH! off in the universe
For now, they fight, OH! Ol' Slackfoot, in his suicide van
Van, van, van, van, van, van
It's possibly the only van more dangerous than Mr. T's
Also more beautiful, for he spent months upon months wrapping and wrapping, wrapping and wrapping
It in the sharpest and most deadly of barbed wires
No seats needed, he said, no!
None, put a milk crate in there, he said, sit on it punk, you're gonna die anyway, it doesn't matter, you don't need seatbelts Forget you, why do you think they call it the suicide van
Because you commit suicide, you moron
And the wives, they sit at home, OH!
Darning their socks and taking the balls off their sweaters
For they wait for their husbands, loyally
And a thousand shall fall at Slackfoot's hand, and a thousand at the hand of the suicide van
The suicide van doesn't have any hands, jerk
Shut up
I hate you
