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 !@^%'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