Hear what is played, what is sung In the sight of the orphans Near to the night, so to hide every deviant notion You try to leave, but become as one horrid invention Run to the leaf covered home to prepare you protection The phonograph plays, part and parcel Odd signatures of the kind you missed from the last century You start to think of the ones who have betrayed your memory Put to complete disarray while the handles are turning What comes to you comes too late as the needle is touching The phonograph plays, part and parcel Ever turning all our worries and our troubles You look over, what you see is innocent And the lions come to greet us by the hundreds From a corner one is watching us being eaten