Terrible Atrocities in the Bullpen of Ferrara in the Infinite Space of Whisker Breath

I have an
ankle full of whiskey,
and a face full of knives,
I poke my way along the street,
with fists of brisket.

Only grease knows the true
voice of the universe,
only whispers can
hear the disdain of America.

Has a tree ever fallen?
Has a man ever tried to save a life?
How many points can a drive for home score?

There are 9,000 little reasons in this
jar why I should poke you with a fist
of rage, and only 1 why I shouldn't.
I know the answer.

Writing on walls has never affected me much,
writing on walls has never affected me much.
There's a time and a place for everything.

Flip the card and learn your fate.

"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
Those are the war cries of the unheard
of your nethers.

I have an ankle full of whiskey.