I'm a man of habit, I always read the little elevator
signs:how many people it holds, and how many kilos,
then the elevator doors open and I've already forgotten
what the sign says. I'm a man of habit, and if I blow
my nose I have to check what's come out, how many
kilos it weighs and if it might be dangerous for the
elevator.
Sitting in the bath I emit certain bubbles which run up
my back while rising to the surface, making me happy,
once they reach the surface I don't like them anymore.
I'm a man of habit, don't be too quick to judge me,
you're just like me. And now for another happy little
chorus that has sweet fuck all to do with anything, but
which young people enjoy: tell me why, if a moo-cow
goes moo, why doesn't a nightingale go nigh? Our
lives are a charade, at first everything seems to be
xxxxxyx, but then it turns out to be zxxyxz. Tell me
why there's a brown hot-air balloon without a propeller
or a rudder inside of me.
When I've got a date with a girl I always cup my hand
over my mouth and smell my breath, I stay in the bath
for about twenty years, I think I'm going to get laid,
then I don't get laid and I don't wash anymore. I search
my nostrils for some evidence of my roots, but all I
find's a fig and I'll have to wipe it off under a chair or
something, just like when I was a child. These are the
things I do, I sell lampshades too, you are just like
me....And now another little chorus that's got fuck all
to do with anything but which young people enjoy:
tell me why, if a moo-cow goes moo, why doesn't
a nightingale go nigh? Hi, we are Wayne Jackson
and Andrew Love, the Memphis Horns. Hi, I am
the Rararors. Big trouble. Thank you. Tell me why
there's a brown hot-air balloon without a propeller
or a rudder inside of me. Having reached the end
of the day, I look under the blankets in search of
hope, I am abundantly flatulent, I'm no longer
frightened, I drift off happily to sleep, intoxicated
by my own fumes
