[Verse 1]
The soft tissue around the anus yields paper-cuts
In time with sags and heaves in the next cubicle
Must this feed my dreams?
Faeces-boy at the wedding, the injurer of Frankfurt
[Verse 2]
To lie alone in the mornings
Nailed to the bottom of the pit of opportunity
Makes me sad and sore
To sit, bedecked, makes me hurry more
