I got twenty four hours before the sedation.
(I don’t want it. I don’t want it.)
There’s no one to contact. All of my relations
called to commit. Called to commit.
I wanna get away. Gotta get away.
I need to head down to the beach!
I have twenty hours left until the trepanning
(they’re gonna drill it. They’re gonna drill it!)
and all I wanna do is run away for suntanning.
(Just let ’em grill it. Just let ’em grill it.)
If I climb out the window and head for the door
I can hitch a train down to the beach!
And then I’ll have eighteen hours ’til the extirpation
(with all the cuttin’, god! all the cuttin’)
unless someone in the family has some revelation
(but they believe in nuttin’. They believe in nuttin’.)
Nothing to hope for; no reason to stay. Only thing to do is reach for the beach and preach to each and every peach on the beach to beseech for my freedom…