I do nothing at all and let my legs go fizzy
I don’t do any good turns, I might go dizzy
I’m a jet-foil skipper with a nautical growl
Reprimanding on-tour drum technicians

We stand round in bus queues and die in midweek
And even on clear days I can’t see the point
But I wake up in places where jugglers have mates
And Sylvian and Fripp discuss whippets

Pumped full of smack and with more to inject
Come up and meet the new genius elect
Who’s slumped in the corner for maximum effect
Girl, he should spend a week being a Nordic ski widow