She sends me precious things with violins
Her phonograph records
My thoughts become disturbed they are worse than hers
I'm f**in' demented
The marquis de Sade could take pleasure
Absurd games in all kinds of weather
It's so obtuse there is no use
Sometimes I think that I should know better
Stick around for the nonexistent second verse
A diatribe verging on the perverse
The one line I'd like to cross
Does not exist
So neither do I
Happy birthday Mr president
All the best are dressed in cement
I know I'm not the one to blame
Sometimes I think that I should know better
She sends me precious things with violence
Her p**nograph records
She's f**in' demented.