We sleep by the ever-bright hole in the door, eat in the corner, talk to the floor,
Cheating the spiders who come to say 'please'. Politely they bend at the knees.
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.

Old gentlemen talk of when they were young, of ladies lost, of erring sons.
Lace-covered dandies, revel with friends, pure as the truth, tied at both ends.
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.

Scented cathedral, spire pointed down; we pray for souls in Kentish Town.
A delicate hush, the gods floating by, wishing us well, pie in the sky.
God of Ages, Lord of Time: mine is the right to be wrong.
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.

Jackrabbit mister, spawn a new breed
Of love-hungry pilgrims, no bodies to feed.
Show me a good man, and I'll show you the door.
The last hymn is sung, and the devil cries, 'More!'

Well, I'm all for leaving, and that being done, I've put in a request to take up my turn in that forsaken paradise that calls itself Hell, where no-one has nothing, and nothing is--

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