You'd hold on to nothing If it fit in your hands Pockets and bags just won't understand The common disorder of heads on the rise Don't smell with the nose or see with the eyes I am just waiting for something to happen And all sense is lost You'd callous the body To make you a man Harder to touch but that was the plan Will you behold a revolution with style You'd swap your hands for a new set of teeth The chatter goes well and it's well preserved The gra** remains green if it's left undisturbed