Horace Tidas was murdered by the hatred
that he leveled on himself.
Guilty weighted, he walked around
pretendin' he was somebody else.
Froze in fear. You can talk to him
he don't hear. Now it's only role to role
It's the Horace Tidas Show.

Blame your mama. Egg a duck
I'm watchin' what you're doin', and
what your doin' sucks
It ain't bad timin'.
It ain't bad luck.
When will you
Meet me at the crux.

There's a little lady who, like a
little baby, just wants him near.
She ain't real spunky, she don't
talk fast but she's completely sincere.
She's blind but she sure can feel
She's crippled and she reverently
kneels, in thanks for the new
pair of wheels he got thrown in
with the deals that he maimed
her to seal.

Blame your mama. Egg a duck
I'm watchin' what you're doin', and
what your doin' sucks
It ain't bad timin'.
It ain't bad luck.
When will you
Meet me at the crux.

The table's gettin' tired of holdin'
up my elbows as I'm watchin'
your behind, out on the dance
floor shakin' at eye level all
the time. Stop and take a breather.
Let me freshen up your drink.
Explain to me in detail how your
urine hits the sink.

Blame your mama. Egg a duck
I'm watchin' what you're doin', and
what your doin' sucks
It ain't bad timin'.
It ain't bad luck.
When will you
Meet me at the crux.
 

All songs ©1978 by Rabbit Songs BMI