She chose the soft centre
And took it to bed with her mother,
And the ideal confusion
Was just an illusion
To gain further news of her brother.
And the comfort of mother
Was just an appeal for protection,
For the cat from next door
Was found later at four
In surgical dissection.
And I don't want to be
The son of any freak
Who for a chocolate centre
Can take you off the street.
For soon they'll plough the desert,
And God knows where I'll be,
Collecting submarine numbers
On the main street of the sea.
The Vicar is thicker,
And I just can't see through to him,
For his cardinal sings
A collection of hymns,
And a collection of coins
Is made after.
And who wrote the Bible,
Was it Judas or Pilate?
Well one cleans his hands
While the other one hangs,
But still I continue to stand.
