All this is, is just a song that goes like this and it goes on and on and on and on you can kiss the pope, you can pass the pipe you can pray for praying sake, but all it adds up to is your life when you're 64 the pussy play declines trembling hands on dried-up flowers are not ideal for Valentines modern life's a bore, everything's defined polka-dotted, plastic wrapped face to face till it's phased out we can ask for more, by not asking at all let's forget how it is done and try and fail till it's a farce she said, fuck me like a poet, like someone tasting wine there's no love without some smut, so take the raw with the refined we can stay indoors, just let the world go by there's nothing there we haven't seen and if there is then that's alright now hold that thought, through the night, alright?