Three o' three.. the seconds they are sequins
And the minute string, ravelled 'round the mannequin
Of formless space, a party line at last that we can
All embrace – and segue to the burning masses!
Ten to eleven.. don't question.. just get in
I think that we are losing a way
Westie… you cannot drum
Half past noon, visualize a centaur baying
At the moon.. his profile is a silver circle
Brings to mind the portraits on the coinages and
Lincoln's beard, and why's he got a horse's body?
(Griffin, a cruiser) you'll love her.. you'll lose her
I think that we are losing our way
Westie.. you cannot drum
Five nineteen, deluded like a Dixie-Crat..
I don't ya
Clog latrine, and clean it like a Dixie-Crat..
And deck the halls with spirulina
Dry route to Devon
So great, like Heaven
I think that we are losing a way
Westie.. you cannot drum
No.. Westie.. you cannot drum
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