It's too hot babe, pull the covers back,
Don't touch me babe, I don't remember ever liking that,
Don't touch me babe, roll over.
O brother, you don't know what you've got, only time flies...
You've gotta do some clockwork.
Sometimes you hear the broken bell sound up on the who*e's hill,
The ladies clamor for the Salvo's sale, bickering like little girls
For second hand womens' things, for countless prying mans' hands.
O working girl, you don't get round enough, it's like yr daddy says...
You gotta do some clockwork.
(in a berth of the port wharf the song of the penitent sailor... upon
what stage? A slab in the gut of a Japanese whaler... a material blue
and tailored and time is a tailor... both brief and slow.)
Now I can hear the broken bell,
Now I can hear the clockwork,
It has me reaching for the hidden rail,
It has me listening for the song bird,
But I hear it very minor,
But I hear it very minor...
O singer, I don't believe your song, or your lying lines,
O singer, I don't believe your song, or your lying lines...
You've gotta do some clockwork:
The Pneuma, Cecilian, the Metzler, Angelus, Virtuos, Apollo, Paragon, Minerva, Stella
Clockwork, all clockwork.
O but I didn't write this song with a machine,
And I don't know how to stop it from its accidental purpose.