It sits in the corner of the ceiling
And waits for you to turn your back
It wears a suit of armour
Made from jawbones, from voice boxes
It finds your faults
It scans your life
It finds your faults
It scans your life
It’s lithe body, slithering
Across the years
Up on its hind legs, a hard black finger
Scratching away at the good, revealing the meaning
Scratching away at the good, revealing the meaning
A renaissance, a rebirth, rekindling public affection
The prince, on its throne, it’s throne in the corner of the ceiling,
clinging on and on and on and on
The prince, ebullient and eternal