Sing a song of sixth sense, pocket full of hair, I can feel what you're thinking in your underwear. Momma said, put it in your head, that you're not that kind of girl, but Momma never new the kind of man that makes your lips curl. There's Harry, Al, Phil and Jim, Francois, Philipe, and Ted. Sam, Jesus, Jun-ichi, and what the heck Muhammed. You could spill your guts, scream "I'm a slut!" at your next tharapy session. Feed the guilt on which you're built; how long since your last confession? Or you could just come over here, you know I have my uses. I'll sing a song of six pence to your pocket full of juices.