All this is, is just a song that goes like thisnnand it goes on and on and on and onnnnnyou can kiss the pope, you can pass the pipennyou can pray for praying sake,nnbut all it adds up to is your lifennwhen you're 64 the pussy play declinesnntrembling hands on dried-upnnflowers are not ideal for Valentinesnnnnmodern life's a bore, everything's definednnpolka-dotted, plastic wrappednnface to face till it's phased outnnwe can ask for more, by not asking at allnnlet's forget how it is done and nntry and fail till it's a farcennnnshe said, fuck me like a poet,nnlike someone tasting winennthere's no love without some smut,nnso take the raw with the refinednnwe can stay indoors, just let the world go bynnthere's nothing there we haven't seennnand if there is then that's alrightnnnow hold that thought,nnthrough the night, alright?