Icky Thump
Album - 15 giugno 2007 - Debaser id 413004

Yah-Hee,
Icky thump,
Who'da thunk?
Sittin' drunk on a wagon to Mexico.

Ahh well,
What a chump,
Well, my head got a bump,
When I hit it on the radio.

Redhead señorita,
Looking dead,
Came and said,
"Need a bed?"
En español.

I said,
"Gimme a drink of water
I'm gonna sing around the colla'
And I don't need a microphone."

Icky thump,
With a lump in my throat,
Grabbed my coat,
And I was freakin',
I was ready to go.

And I swear,
Besides the hair,
She had one white eye,
One blank stare,
Lookin' up,
Lyin' there.

On the stand,
Near her hand,
Was a candy cane,
Black rum, sugar cane,
Dry ice, something strange.

La la la la la la la,
La la la la la la la.

White Americans, what?
Nothing better to do?
Why don't you kick yourself out?
You're an immigrant, too.

Who's using who?
What should we do?
Well, you can't be a pimp
And a prostitute, too.

Icky thump,
Handcuffed to a bunk,
Robbed blind,
Looked around,
And there was nobody else.

Left alone,
I hit myself with a stone,
Went home and learned how
To clean up after myself.

Conquest.
He was out to make a conquest.
Didn't care what harm was done,
Just as long as he won
The prize.

Conquest.
She was just another conquest.
Didn't care whose heart was broke,
Love to him was a joke,
Til he looked into her eyes.

And then in the strange way things happen,
Their roles were reversed from that day.
The hunted became the huntress;
The hunter became the prey.

Conquest.
Now you know who made the conquest.
She with all her female guile
Led him helpless down the aisle.
She had finally made a conquest.

And then in the strange way things happen,
Their roles were reversed from that day.
The hunted became the huntress;
The hunter became the prey.

Conquest.
Now you know who made the conquest.
She with all her female guile
Led him helpless down the aisle.
She had finally made a conquest.

Conquest.

Singing li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.
Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.

Well, the hills are pretty and rollin',
But the thorn is sharp and swollen.
And the man plays a beautiful whistle,
But he wears a prickly thistle.

Singing li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.
Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.

The silver birches pierce through an icy fog
Which covers the ground most daily.
And the angels which carry St. Andrew high
Are singing a tune most gaily.

Singing li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.
Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.

One sound can hold back a thousand hands
When the pipe plays a tune forlorn.
And the thistle is a prickly flower, aye,
But how it is sweetly worn.

Singing li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.
Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.

Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.
Li de li de li, oh oh.
Well a li de li de li, oh.