Get your hand off the small of my back;
We’re three short seconds away from a panic attack.
Rinse your mouth and survey the room.
All these sharp-dressed little shivers
Will patiently listen to you.

The kid is going hunting;
The kid is going hunting at the party,
Intoxicated by the moonlight
Stretched across the ceiling.

The eye begets
The lie begets
The lie begets
The lie,
That my thigh begets my time;
What’s that got to do with you and I?
So crawl your fingers from the trace of my spine;
You’ve studied it enough to grow your own,
Why the hell do you still need mine?

The kid is going hunting,
The kid is going hunting at the party,
Intoxicated by the moonlight
Splattered on the ceiling.

Pins and needles!
Pins and needles!
Prolix, posturing peacock pedantry!
You pompous pedagogue!
That whole lot of whisky words
Are the sick breath at my hind,
Have another drink
And wander off into the night…

Oh, but you’d better practice that winning smile, sweetie,
In case I ever catch you in my headlights.