The digital cuckoo, hastens in the spring,
I must admit, I kind of miss,
The way he used to sing, he used to sing, he used to sing.
One day, we'll play,
With tennis racquets made of wood,
And footballs of brown leather.
We'll fly our little plane on one propeller.
All these things have changed for good,
Good but not for better, good but not for better.
Forever changing, is that man of great ambition.
d**h and blinding managing, to be held in one position.
But when I exercise my feet, I like to recognise my street.
I'm now so acquainted with my prison.
The digital rooster, welcomes in the day.
I must confess, I love him less,
Each time I wake this way, I wake this way, I wake this way.
One day, we'll play,
With tennis racquets made of wood,
And footballs of brown leather.
We'll fly our little plane on one propeller.
All these things have changed for good,
Good but not for better, good but not for better.
Forever changing, is that man of great ambition.
d**h and blinding managing, to be held in one position.
But when I exercise my feet, I like to recognise my street.
I'm now so acquainted with my prison.
He used to sing, he used to sing...