Morte Aos Ciquelistas

Here they come, pedaling away
Nothing's gonna make them stop
They ride on until they turn pale
With their balls crushed on the seats

Death to the cyclists
Death to the little men
Riding their bikes

Here they come, pedaling away
At thirty miles an hour, where will they stop?
One or two might have fallen down
And the others can go fuck themselves

Death to the cyclists
Death to the little men
Riding their bikes