My aunt Donna
Says she has the language
To talk to birds.
And Donna's older sister Mary
Regularly talks to dead men:
It's true, it's true!
Isn't it ironic
That Donna hates her sister,
And they don't speak?
So what if I need to talk to
A dove that died a year ago:
What do I do?
The bricklayer makes sweeter love
Than the executioner,
I learned in school.
For it is always better
To build up than to cut down:
Ray-loo, ray-loo.
But sweeter than the bricklayer
Is love made by the piano player:
It's true, it's true!
For very, very fast fingers
Are a virtue in the bedroom
Ray-loo, ray-loo.

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