If I go down tomorrow,

Will you grace my little cell

Say, can you spare a dime

Before I kick you into hell

We’re marching down to New Orleans

Like scarecrows on parade

You’ll treasure every minute and

We’ll shed our days away

 

Here’s to your missus,

Here’s to your bed

Here’s to your kid

With the golden head

Your pillow full of madness

 

Isn’t it pretty

Isn’t it swell

Out of the frying pan,

Straight into Hell

You really like it, I can tell

 

We’re mean and lean and bulletproof,

And we don’t dance so well

We never ever say goodbye,

We’ve got no souls to sell

The Devil’s driving on our trail

And honking on his horn

We’ve been running wild ahead of him

Ever since we were born

 

Here’s to your missus,

Here’s to your bed

Here’s to your kid

With the golden head

Your pillow full of madness

 

Isn’t it pretty

Isn’t it swell

Out of the frying pan,

Straight into Hell

You really like it, I can tell