| The safety behind bars and in motorcycle sidecars
|
| Keeps me asleep all night, deep alright
|
| So I’m not frightened by the dark
|
| My ears tucked in my pillow hear not the wind blow
|
| I’m a passenger, a prisoner
|
| The will is not my own
|
| And when the customs officer asks if I’ve anything to declare
|
| I keep my mouth shut, so no one will mess with me
|
| The theater in nightclubs from Kabukicho to Las Vegas
|
| Shine the brightest stages, keep the tightest cages
|
| Swap the playbills for girls
|
| Bound feet and feathered, high-heeled and hornd
|
| They do the can-can to the salariman
|
| Kowtowd and scorned
|
| And when the customs officer asks if I’ve anything to declare
|
| I keep my mouth shut, so no one will mess with me
|
| I hem my pants the appropriate length
|
| So there’ll be less chance of me tripping in the street
|
| Or of tracking mud from my soiled cuff on to my neighbor’s rug
|
| Among other stuff, their pristine white sheets
|
| I knock on their door, once one has gone to work
|
| And I slip in, dip in to my neighbor’s wet purse
|
| And when the customs officer asks if I’ve anything to declare
|
| I keep my mouth shut, so no one will mess with me
|
| The safety behind bars and in motorcycle sidecars
|
| Keeps me asleep all night, deep alright
|
| So I’m not frightened by the dark
|
| My ears tucked in my pillow hear not the wind blow
|
| I’m a passenger, a prisoner
|
| The will is not my own
|
| And when the customs officer asks if I’ve anything to declare
|
| I keep my mouth shut, so no one will mess with me |