I've done everything that can be done to heal this woundnLeft it on it's own for yearsnnI've done everything that can be done to heal this woundnLeft it on it's own for yearsnCouldn't touch it, didn't pick it, didn't get it wetnIt didn't stop the bleedingnnI bandaged it, I wrapped it, stitched it, tourniqueted itnI held it stiff & aching in the airnHeld it there til I went beserknDidn't sleepnIt didn't worknDidn't stop it weepingnnAnd the wound is your lifenAnd your life took on a life of it's ownn(Or so you foolishly thought)nAnd your life rolled on over me Bang-Bang like 56 train wheelsnEvery time I heard news of younnAnd the wound was in every lousy song on the radionnAnd the pain was like a tree-fern in the dark, damp, forgotten placesnDarkness didn't stop her growingnNew-born baby cells dividing..nCurled up tight unrolling day by daynStretching up, stretching outnForming the same identical shapenClones. There ain't too much sadder thannClones - relentlessly emerging from the hairy heart of the woundnnAnd the fern is beautiful in it's own waynUncurling in the darknBeautiful with no one there to see itnAs the would weeps & achesnn(Now there's some sad things known to the man from the planet Marzipan)