Tiny Sick Tears Lyrics - You Can't Do That On Stage Anymore Vol. 4 - Frank Zappa

Frank Zappa (vocals) 

Lowell George (guitar, vocals) 

Roy Estrada (bass, vocals) 

Don Preston (keyboards, electronics) 

Buzz Gardner (trumpet) 

Ian Underwood (alto saxophone) 

Bunk Gardner (tenor saxophone) 

Motorhead Sherwood (baritone saxophone) 

Jimmy Carl Black (drums) 

Arthur Tripp (drums) 

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You know sometimes in the middle in the night 

You get to feeling uptight 

And wish you were feelin alright 

And you know youre white 

And you ain't got no soul 

And theres no one with a hole nearby 

And therefore in your teen-age madness and delirium 

You toss and turn in your sweaty little grey teen-age sheets 

In that little room with the psychedelic posters 

And the red bulb 

And the incense 

And your bead collection 

And your country song round up books 

And you cry your tiny sick tears 

Tiny sick tears 

Tiny sick tears 

Tiny sick tears 

You know you gotto gotto gotto gotto 

Youve gotta find some relief from the terrible. 

From the terrible ache thats clutching right at your heart 

Because its hurting you to your heart 

And your crying tiny sick tears 

And you have to go downstairs 

Out of your bedroom 

Out into the hall 

Down to the living room 

To the living room 

To the kitchen 

To the cookie jar 

Where you wanna get your cookies 

And you take the top off the cookie jar 

And you stick your tiny sick hand in the cookie jar 

And you reach around in the cookie jar 

To find a raisin cookie 

A spongy one with the little plump raisins 

A little tactile sensation for your tiny sick fingers 

Squeeze the raisin on the cookie 

Pull the cookie out of the jar 

Stuff the raisin into your eating hole 

Push it all the way in your eating hole 

Now make your eating hole wrap itself around the tiny sick cookie 

Scarve the cookie 

Put the lid back on the jar 

Go over to the ice box 

Open the ice box 

Pull out the box of milk 

Open the box of milk 

Into a triangular beak like that 

Pull the little triangular beak up to your drinking hole 

Up to your hole 

Pour the white fluid from the drinking box into your hole 

Close the beak 

Reinsert the box into the ice box 

Close the box door 

Walk out of the kitchen 

Through the living room 

Back up the stairs 

Past your sisters room 

Past your brothers room 

You take a mask from the ancient hallway 

Make it down to your fathers room 

And you walk in 

And your father, your tiny sick father 

Is beating his meat to a Playboy magazine 

Hes got it rolled into a tube 

And hes got his tiny sick pud stuffed in the middle of it 

Right flat up against the centerfold 

There he is your father with a tiny sick erection 

And you walk in and you say: 

Father I want to kill you 

And he says: Not now son, not now 

Photos 

HANDS UP! 

OOOO LAAAA 

I know that its so hard stop playing this soul music, you know, cause it really . . . For one thing its really easy . . . And for another thing: It wastes a lot of time while were on stage. We learned in our travels that teenagers are ready to accept these two chords no matter how theyre played. It makes you feel secure, cause you know that after, did de dit de didde the other one is gonna come on. It never fails, simple . . . Some people would say its bullshit. But we love it, don't we kids? 

Meanwhile . . .