Hang On to Yourself

Well she’s a tongue twisting storm
She’ll come to the show tonight
Praying to the light machine
She wants my honey not my money
She’s a funky-thigh collector
Laying on electric dreams
Well come on, come on
We’ve really got a good thing going
Well come on, well come on
If you think we’re going to make it
You better hang on to yourself
We can’t dance, We don’t talk much
We just ball and play
But then we move like tigers on Vaseline
Well the bitter comes out better on a stolen guitar
You’re the Blessed
We’re The Spiders From Mars
Well come on, come on
We’ve really got a good thing going
Well come on, well come on
If you think we’re going to make it
You better hang on to yourself
Come on
Lay it on
Well come on, come on
We’ve really got a good thing going
Well come on, well come on
If you think we’re going to make it
You better hang on to yourself
Come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah
Come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah
Come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah
Come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah, come on, ah