On demand, dum da di da Of the statue deity, dum da di da The young poet and a mirror linked To the hallway of aqueous phantasms Four doors, dum da di da All locked for lunacy, dum da di da The poet squint his eye through the keyhole One more time for the d**h of the Mexican One more time for the shadows on the walls One more time for the tinkling-bell child Spinning by the bed of the unmanly One more time the gun to his head One more time, dum da di da For the a**a**ination, dum da di da The spinning hallucinatory imagery By the aerialist by the bed of the epicene One more time, the master's choice The gun put to his laurel crown We are born with a wound, born with a wound Wound of separation Close the gap On demand, dum da di da Of the master, dum da di da The poet plashes through the mirror To the hallway of aqueous phantasms One more time, the master's choice The gun put to his filthy wreath We are born with a wound, born with a wound Wound of separation Close the gap