Beethoven's Funeral Songtext

Broken records pile up, thousands of people line up. Unspoken records broken, not true tokens taken. May I please go deaf, the sight is bad enough. The vibrations numb, the mute be not dumb. Two will form a crowed, thousands are allowed. We all need treatment for these bleeding ears. Raise your right arm for an excuse. Wiggle fingers. Raise your left for complaints as a critic or nay-sayer. If this is good, don't forget your toothbrush, don't forget to write. Close the sliding door. I'll think of you as I wait on the ocean floor.