Who said "to thine own self be true?"
Oh right, the guy who got ran through
And who decreed that all unclean get thrown in a ditch outside town?
Oh right, that was God
Let me tell you how to make it in the world today
And by 'I,' I mean "Simplis Pueris Mentalis Doktor"
Mentalis simplis pueris eye
For the sky that is over you is bra**
And the ground that you tread upon is iron
From what I say you can deduct the truth
And the rest can be thrown in the squelch chamber
Too many j**els
Not enough of fingers
Left all the poets and malingerers inside, inside, inside
To gain financial
One must be a hollowed out instrument
An original instrument of God
I say yes to no and maybe
Waste can be wine, waste can be wine
And what is lost is of no consequence
A real rich-dad, poor-dad kinda deal
Famously nervous spectral duping
Is the enemy of profit and its disciples
I'll tell you all about aposiopesis, if, if --
Too many j**els
And not enough of fingers
They are the fallow and they are disa**emblers inside, bug-eyed, inside, inside
I do all my shady business at Zeidman's and that's how I get ahead
Every road crooked must be made straight
Every mountain must be made flat
And I know if I die in a field and inside
And I know inside, inside, bug-eyed, bug-eyed!
Too many j**els
Not enough fingers
Well I hope you all maintain sales, sales
Inside, inside, inside, bug-eyed
You all eat ash
You all eat ash
To know me
Is to love me