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(brooker / reid) |
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My amazon six-triggered bride |
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Now searching for a place to hide |
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Still sees the truth quite easily |
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But shrouds all else in mystery |
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While madmen in top hats and tails |
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Impale themselves on six-inch nails |
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And some arabian also-ran |
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Impersonates a watering can |
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Some santa claus-like face of note |
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Entreats my ears to set afloat |
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My feeble sick and weary brain |
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And i am overcome with shame |
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And hide inside my overcoat |
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And hurriedly begin to quote |
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While some arabian sheikh most grand |
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Impersonates a hot-dog stand |
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The red cross ambulance outside |
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Can only mean that i must hide |
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'til dusk and finally the night |
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When i will make a hasty flight |
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Across the sea and far away |
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To where the weary exiles stay |
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And some arabian oil-well |
|
Impersonates a padded cell |
