| Song | Alas, Here Come the Hypochondriacs to Wait with You in the Lobby |
| Artist | The Locust |
| Album | Molecular Genetics from the Gold Standard Labs |
| Drained blood from your own spine in a trophy. | |
| Dead skin cells drip charity crumbs. | |
| Biting the hand that feeds, | |
| Deemed an unhealthy meal. | |
| When slipping on someone else's elbow grease, | |
| Gurgling devices loose their appetite. | |
| Mirages seem to commission blame, | |
| While pointing the finger cracks the mirror. |