How long, babe?
Til the end of time?
Did you think it’d be all that sublime?
I’m not going to go on keeping up this mime.
I’ve got to get me some shine, Lord,
I’ve got to get some shine.
How many, hey?
A baker or a butcher’s dozen more?
Acting like a bit of a whore,
By now you got to be sore.
Sore of paths so known, Lord,
Sore of paths so known.
What’ll it take to move you out?
What’ll it take to move you?
More than the rape and murder of Mary Sue?
More than me, your dead boy scout?
I’ll be goin’ south, Lord,
I’ll be goin’ south.
You’d best move it up north, Bess
Where the winters are cold
Like your friend King Leopold
Where the nights are long, Bess
Where the nights are long.