Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic Potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the Spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues cos My throats been misused and my voice is a crack in The tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post, With a pamphlet. With an order; \"Take this when the Pain gets too much!\" I confess I feel nothing at all . . . I'm bored and you're bald, but I laughed when you Called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me. I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture Yourself--but your brown eyes I know so very well. They're sadder and wiser; We've finally been Through it all. Now our time's slowly ticking away. Do you think there's a heaven?