Walking along
And these lips aren't my lips.
They sing a song
About the way your hair flips.
It may be wrong
But they speak of your hips.
The list is long;
The words sail like sinking ships.

These hands that move,
they can't be my hands.
They have a groove,
They stretch far away to foreign lands,
And also soothe
me as I forget about my life's demands.

My feet, they walk,
But I have no control.
They tend to stalk
The voices of desperate men of long ago.

My eyes, they're blind,
But they can't stop searching.