Here drives the janitor to refute range
so gently rendered to illogical strains
Within its path lies a coat that turns
where once intent is now rendered infirm

This is the haute couture of the leech
that preys upon its subject in an eminent way
I can’t play the Roman fool and die of my own sword
What fool the beggar when he gets no
gets no reward

Fuel my revulsion with a nerve so strong
so vile
Here comes the rain
here it comes again

Ride your own waves and waive the rules of fair play
Who keeps a straight bat when the umpire turns away?
Play the frail equal as the tide turns towards you
But tea and sympathy has never been one of my strong points