Some...ills make you nauseous,
Some...ills make you pall.
But the ones that 'nother gives you,
Might do anything at all.

Ask a doctor, thinks he's ten feet tall.

And if you go looking for twits,
Well, you know you'll find them all.
Say that you a-joking were 'bout the killer,
And pills he'll give you all.

Called the doctor, but he was so small.

Told the men, I was ignored,
Want to tell them blow your own dough.
It's just those pills that you have consumed,
That make your mind move so slow.

Don't ask doctor, 'cause he don't know.

When sense of concentration take leave and they've fled.
And I'd like my quiz talking forward.
The dreaded doc's out of his head.
Just remember what that louse said.
Feed your head!
Need my head!