I keep talking to the microphone
The microphone, the microphone
But it's like talking to a wall of brick

It makes me sick, it makes me sick

And tired of trying to tell the microphone

It doesn't seem to know
That it's owned
It doesn't know it's owned

It doesn't know

A voice is speaking from beyond the grave

From in a cave, beyond the grave
The turning wheels of a cassette machine
Will reenact the buried fact


The dog who hears it cannot understand
His master's turned to sand

And he's free
He doesn't see he's free
He doesn't see