Here drives the janitor to refute range
So gently rendered to illogical strains
Within its path lies a coat that turns
Where once intent is now rendered infirm
This is the haute couture of the leech
That preys upon its subject in an eminent way
I cant play the Roman fool and die of my own sword
What fool the beggar when he gets no
Gets no reward
Fuel my revulsion with a nerve so strong
So vile
Here comes the rain
Here it comes again
Ride your own waves and waive the rules of fair play
Who keeps a straight bat when the umpire turns away?
Play the frail equal as the tide turns towards you
But tea and sympathy has never been one of my strong points