I could never fall asleep with you beside me
There was something in the way you breathed that made me frightened
You had no respect for me
For my artistry
For my music
I don't get what you mean you find it
Tonally inconsistent
Everything I make is totally tonally coherent
It's generically uniform
And uses the traditional instruments
If love is the answer, then what is the question?
If love is the answer, then what is the question?
If love is the answer, then what is the question?
Can you pat my bum
So your accusing me (it's what I feared, oh)
Of writing music inconsistently
When you can clearly see (with both your earholes)
I pick one mood and then I stick to it
Chapter four, the cursed bed knob
Okay I admit that that was
Possibly one slip
From being tonally consistent
But I'm fixing it, fixing it
Must I now embrace that
This is problem I've been facing
Since the moment I started making music
Is that it, is that it?
Can my life having meaning
If my art is always cleaved
Between two matrices of being
Am I wasting it, wasting it
Must I now accept
That this artistic dialect
Is my fragmented ego manifesting
Time to quit, is it time to quit?
But the bums! Don't forget about the bums, Jazz
You know they're funny to think about
You know they're funny to sing about
But the bums (we are your bums, we're your bums)
Could I leave behind the bums (come here guys)
You're so funny to think about
And so witty to sing about