Three o' three.. the seconds they are sequins And the minute string, ravelled 'round the mannequin Of formless space, a party line at last that we can All embrace and segue to the burning masses!
Ten to eleven.. don't question.. just get in I think that we are losing a way Westie you cannot drum
Half past noon, visualize a centaur baying At the moon.. his profile is a silver circle Brings to mind the portraits on the coinages and Lincoln's beard, and why's he got a horse's body?
(Griffin, a cruiser) you'll love her.. you'll lose her I think that we are losing our way Westie.. you cannot drum
Five nineteen, deluded like a Dixie-Crat.. I don't ya Clog latrine, and clean it like a Dixie-Crat.. And deck the halls with spirulina
Dry route to Devon So great, like Heaven I think that we are losing a way Westie.. you cannot drum No.. Westie.. you cannot drum