Such a sensitive opinion in one so young
Would you like to know about everything
That we've done
You believe what you read in the printed lies
But you won't believe the evidence
Of your own eyes
And yes I've done a lot of things
You'd probably call a crime
But I don't feel guilty for anything

All the tongues waggle
But we just smile
That'll keep the little buggers
Going for a while

Here comes some text which isn't printed

How, how you love it, how you love it
You go out and you find it
How you love it, how you love it

Such horror, oh such a farce
Just a little bit of broken glass
You should think yourself lucky
That this was done
You'll have something you can whine
About for years to come

All the tongues waggle

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much