Sing to me the song your mirror singsOf copper tonesFlesh and bonesOf spirited, clipped wingsOf vinyl and aluminumCan you fit your fingers in?The two holes of the cassette tape?The rod stem of the woodwinds?They say a penny with a hole in itStill plays a tuneIf you dare to position your needleOn its bleeding woundTell me, do you prefer an audience?Or an empty room?Dare to tell them...at the very leastThe bullet pierced right throughThe music that raised usRequired human touchForbidden love...sweaty, gutsy lustYeah, sing to me that songLike only you canIt's your mirror after allYour weekend. Your man.Everyone is sharing this weekend with youLooks like they're sharing him tooBut they can't share the whiny croon......of the mirror imageThat looks back at youOnly your soulCan sing that tune