One two three men looking at me from the back of the bedroom door, they scootch the chair and circle the square till the peaceless open up the store. They won’t be kidding me, they won’t be kidding you. Back off babe, they don’t mean welfare, and they might be making you their whore, better rush through the door. Wish and hoping, romping and stomping, every door is a spark for war, a cheek’s caress and you’ll be getting undressed and be letting every boat off-shore. They won’t be kidding me, but they might be kidding you. Stop the mil even under goodwill, and walk barefeet the low-lands moor, just rush through the door. Now the righteous seem to vanish, and fuck off, simply put. The red-eyed go, caress their cheek and hold up all the strings to pull. Yep, go, pull the strings… And they string guitars with malice and play them hard to you. And they might be showing their saint-air grin but still be giving you THAT look. One two three men looking at me from beyond the old stage floor, they clap their hands at time and stare, as expecting me to dance their pole. They won’t be kidding me, they won’t be kidding you. Maybe did they know or maybe unaware they might still be getting you off-shore. Just rush through the door.