Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Trotsky's Fence

My small town, Napoleon
Would tell me I am not up with love,
Well just because I share your dark hair,
Does not make us friends.

She threw an accordion,
From the highest floor,
And when it hit the ground,
That's when I found the door.
Can't fix it.

Fevered pitches.
The artist,
who paints no more.

It's not that I don't admire her,
I flashed her a gin grin.
It is merely that she tires me,
and scares me half to death.

She stood behind Trotsky's fence,
Divulging the secrets of electroshock treatment.

Like a feather weight on a freight train
Searching endlessly away,
She will not speak,
Will not believe,
She will not even face

My animal friends...

Melting icecaps all around.
The tables set here comes the clown.
She's holding hands with Death.
I guess I am to blame for this big mess.
The history book is open to rules,
That separates you from me.