I’m thinking about the Psychopath
Sitting by the new laundromat
Who gives a shiny little pearl
To the dancing sweet girl
Who walks around prancing
Always at the sky glancing
Who sets a cunning prank
For the man sitting in the tank
Oh, how we all sing
About the things to cling
Like martial arts
And apple tarts
Autumn grass and New York jazz
Flowers are put on the tanks
Spawned from the proud banks