I could never fall asleep with you beside me
There was something in the way you breathed that made me frightened

You had no respect for me
For my artistry
For my music

I don’t get what you mean you find it
Tonally inconsistent

Everything I make is totally tonally coherent
It’s generically uniform
And uses the traditional instruments

If love is the answer, then what is the question?
If love is the answer, then what is the question?
If lovе is the answer, then what is thе question?
Can you pat my bum?

So you're accusing me (it’s what I feared, oh)
Of writing music inconsistently
When you can clearly see (with both your earholes)
I pick one mood and then I stick to it, uh

Chapter 4, the cursed bed knob
Okay I admit that that was
Possibly one slip
From being tonally consistent
But I’m fixing it, fixing it
Must I now embrace
That this is a problem I’ve been facing
Since the moment I started making
Music
Is that it, is that it?

Can my life have meaning?
If my art is always cleaved
Between two matrices of being
Am I wasting it, wasting it

Must I now accept
That this artistic dialect
Is my fragmented ego manifesting
Time to quit, is it time to quit?

But the bums!
Don’t forget about the bums, Jazz
You know they’re funny to think about
You know they’re funny to sing about

But the bums!
(We are your bums, we’re your bums)
Could I leave behind my bums?
Come here, guys
You’re so funny to think about
You’re so witty to sing about