Sorry for My Poor Taste in Quilts

I'm so sorry about my poor taste in quilts The petri dish ran off and murdered the spoon Who knew the tip of a pitchfork could kill What gave your grandma the right to assume There she goes, absence of fun Deafening lawn mower hum Launch a new rocket next week Prey you'll find, if it's prey you seek I'm so sorry about my mouth. God forbid I try to remove the new blood from my bed I try to remember that deed that you did And end up tattooing my forearm instead Hands on the wheel, 8 and 4 Open wide, give you some more Heart attack, hollering pain Lumberjack, dance in the rain