My aunt Donna Says she has the language To talk to birds. And Donna's older sister Mary Regularly talks to dead men: It's true, it's true! Isn't it ironic That Donna hates her sister, And they don't speak? So what if I need to talk to A dove that died a year ago: What do I do? The bricklayer makes sweeter love Than the executioner, I learned in school. For it is always better To build up than to cut down: Ray-loo, ray-loo. But sweeter than the bricklayer Is love made by the piano player: It's true, it's true! For very, very fast fingers Are a virtue in the bedroom Ray-loo, ray-loo.