A Beechers Brook is low
A hurdle at which greater men have fallen
She manipulates
Steals my mind and hides it in the garden
[Chorus]
But now, only love can bring me down
Somehow, somehow love must bring me down
I become the fan and the bellows
The cupid masturbates
Absent of all thought and of all reason
Shoots me in the back
I think perhaps it must be shooting season
[Chorus]
Not me, not me!