About the raising of the wrist, toss that ham in the frying pan and cut off a piece of my ear. Missing your sexy wiggle, I’ve never done good things, missing the good wiggle bad, the wiggle she’s sitting upon. When you ain’t got none, I’m lost in a crowd and it’s got to get better just might pull out my magic sticks. Only howling at the moon by walking out on me didn’t you call my name? When they dive from the thirteenth floor coming around to tickle the ear pleasing our senses to hear it again.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs