Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers

You dark eye on the function floor
Your black gloss are my only liquids
I keep you pinned, I keep you under the glass
Under the glass, under the glass

But maybe you're a joke to sleep
I cannot take you, no, I cannot move me
He drift off and you scuttle away

But the worst part was the baler twine
And the worst part was the life in your eyes

What a waste
What a waste
What a waste
What a waste

Has an absence increased your stare?
I really doubt it, after all, I'm a savage
With your many legs touching my body
Running headlong into the fields of wipers

Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers
Running headlong into the fields of wipers

You've all done well, kept your perfect noses clean
The beds are made and the governess is pleased
I'm delighted to tell you you've made the grade
The chance to forge the perfect future
But I'm afraid
There's nothing I can offer you
All positions are taken
Too many have had too much
Nothing but bad timing
Sorry, sorry, sorry, forgive me
I'm only a god

Oh, what a waste of Bordeaux
Oh, what a waste
Oh, what a waste of Bordeaux
Oh, what a waste of Bordeaux
Oh, what a waste of Bordeaux