I spy for the "Spirit of Curiousity"

All the scandals of each vain monstrosity

I gossip and I pry and I insinuate

If the failure is great

Then it tends to fascinate



A tornado dropped a funnel cloud with twenty tons of rain

Though she had the attention span of warm cellophane

Her lovers fell like skittles in a 10-pin bowling lane

But nothing could compare with that explosion of fame



So you jumped back with alarm

Every Elvis has his army

Every rattlesnake its charm

Can you still hear me?

Am I coming through just fine?

Your memory was buried in a simple box of pine



Did her green eyes seduce you and make you get so weak?

Was there fire engine red that she left upon your cheek?

It's such a shame you had to break the heart 

You could have counted onbut the last thing you need is another

...Episode of blonde



Revolving like a jeweller's figure on a music box

Spangled curtain parted and a night-club scene unlocks

Pinned and fixed and fastened in a follow spot

Arms thrown out to everyone, she's giving all she's got

To the last gasp of a wounded bandeon

Tiny man imploring to the cieling fan 

This stolen feeling

Amplified up through a busted speaker

Blaring, blasting, advertising, distorted beyond reason

Into the street where petty crime-coats shadow panic drunkards,

Half out of the taxi cab the barker seized my elbow

He thought I was another lonely, likely pilgrim looking for St. Elmo



Repeat chorus



I tried to keep a straight face but you know it never pays

He would stare into those eyes and then vacation in her gaze

She was a cute little ruin that he pulled out of the rubble

Noe they are both living in a soft soap bubble



The film producer's contemplating, entertaining suicide

The picture crumpled in his fist, his runaway child bride

The timepiece stretched across a wrist

She couldn't care less cast aside

The scent that so repelled him that he swore: "insecticide"

And there's a farewell note to mother

That will conclude "Your loving Son"

"Oh, tell your other children not to do as I have done."



Chorus



So an artist drags a toothbrush across the first thing that he sees

And names the painting "Christ's Last Exit into Purgatory"

Receiving secret messages from an alien intelligence

Paying off his stalker it's a legitimate expense

So paste up pictures of those shrill and hollow girls

With puckered lips

She's a trophy on your arm

A magnet for your money clip

The moral of this story is the sorry tale to say

They're pieced with links of chains so they can never run away