"Death Of A Martian" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Bear paws and rascal power
Watching us in your garage
Big girl you ate the neighbor
The nova is over
Wake up and play
Balleradio
Make room for Clara's bare feet]
The love of a Martian

Tick tock and waiting for the meteor
This clock is opening another door

Lots of love just keep it comin'
Making something out of nothin'
These are the best that I
I don't know how to say 
Losin' what I love today
These are the best that I
Lots of love just keep it comin'
Making something out of nothin'
These are the best that I
I don't know [what] to say
[Lookin'] what I lost today
And these are the things that I

Blood flowers in the kitchen
Signing off and winding down
This martain ends her mission
The nova is over
She caught the ball
By the mission bell
Chase lizards bark at donkeys
The love of a martian

Let's bow our head
And let the trumpets blow
Our girl is gone
God bless her little soul

Lots of love just keep it comin'
Making something out of nothin'
These are the best that I
I don't know how to say
Losin' what I love today
These are the best that I
Lots of love just keep it comin'
Making something out of nothin'
These are the best that I
I don't know what to say
[Lookin'] what I lost today
And these are the things that I

She's got a sword in case though this is not her lord in
case the one who can't afford to face her image is restored
to grace. Disappeared. No trace. Musky tears. Suitcase. The
down turn brave little burncub bearcareless turnip snare
rampages pitch color pages...down and out but not in Vegas.
Disembarks and disengages. No loft. Sweet pink canary cages
plummet pop dewskin fortitude for the sniffing black noses
that snort and allude to dangling trinkets that mimic the
dirt cough go drink its. It's for you. Blue battered naval
town slip kisses delivered by duck muscles and bottlenosed
grifters arrive in time to catch the late show. It's a
beehive barrel race. A shehive stare and chase wasted
feature who tried and failed to reach her. Embossed beneath
a box in the closet that's lost. The kind that you find when
you mind your own business. Shiv sister to the quickness
before it blisters into the newmorning milk blanket. Your
ilk is funny to the turnstyle touch bunny whose bouquet set
a course for bloom without decay. get your broom and sweep
the echoes of yesternights fallen freckles...away...