This is where I live, under the cellar floor, deep inside the ground.
Down near the earth's core.
Make your presence known.
That's what the button's for.
Two little bells then welcome to my home.
Don't mind the cannonballs
Coming through the dome over the concert hall.
Leave the dogs alone.
They don't like you at all.
WHO'S FEELING SORRY NOW?
With modern lighting you can read my writing and I really won't mind.
You'll hear the lecture on the
Architecture but it's too little much to late.
This where I eat, over the fireplace.
This where I sleep, up in the bookcase.
This is what I love, tied with a shoelace.
WHO'S FEELING SORRY NOW?
You grab your liver and you sweat and silver but you really can't run.
Your feet are freezing in the ice of
Reason and it's TOO LITTLE much too late.
After you give your life away, how do you tell another story?
What do you do on moving day?
Do you pound and pound but the hammer never hits the nail,
Wind never takes the sail, nothing ever matters?
Show yourself the door.
You're finished anyhow.
Circumstance is your father and mother now.
That's what this was for, shaking the baby bough.
WHO'S FEELING SORRY NOW?
You get the picture, it's a well-known mixture.
Paranoia and hate.
There's no forgiving but it's gracious
Living and it's too little much TOO LATE.
With modern lighting you can read my writing and I really won't mind.
You'll hear the lecture on the
Architecture but it's too little much to late.
You grab your liver and you sweat and silver but you really can't run.
Your feet are freezing in the ice of
Reason and it's TOO LITTLE much too late.
Too little much to late.
Too little much to late.
Too little much to late.
Too little much to late.
Too little much to late.