Let me tell you 'bout a friend of mine
He's a short order cook
Long on speed, short on spice
He reads his customers like a book
He's seen this, and he's done that
Now he's makin' fried eggs an art
But there's one thing he can't fix no how
There's a longing in his heart

He's tried for years to work it out
At the grill and at his home
Well he talks to his friends, talks to himself
He talks the chicken right off the bone
Talks to his woman and she understands
You know they're always eye to eye
She runs the join, They live out back
Small House under

1, 2, 3, 4. talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom... she's a whore bitch, gutter slut. likes to shove me up her butt. drives a pickle, wearing combat boots. while farting, she'll pick me up and give me a ride and drop me in front of the show. oh no, talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom... talking 'bout your mom...

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