Out of control, Running down the street. Head lost in rytham, space speeding beat.Raining through the slates,sodden ashes in the grate,You went to play accordian at the local village fete. For you bullfinchs, martins ring your boat,Round an Round you row trapped in the castle moat. No sense in anything, Thursday. She led her horse away in hob nail boots. She rang me up, she ran me down, she tore me up, She went to town. Went to the wishing well, pick up some small change to call my girl.Your desires sacraficed, left tattoed on your eyes.A man who tells stories is oftern deaf to others. Picks bust, gutters burst,cats and dogs under the door,Frogs on the highway,Ducks on the floor.Friday, No sense to anything, anymore.