Flattered by your wish to kill me,
I push pixels on and out.
I blush at your request to kill me.
This thank-you note is for faking it.
We're working in a coma for a cheque and a chance.
We're sleeping in a panic with the pixels and ads.
Oh, demands.
Dance or hang it up.
We're sympathetic to chance.
Working through a coma for some cheque and a chance,
sleeping in a panic with some pixels and ads,
harming every tissue for some ticker tape pants.
Everybody ruins.
You can dance or hang it up.
Soften the tones and I'll always make time.
Packing up on site, two thousand rooms.
Travel in tombs, and I'll always make time.
Hang it up.