Microphone
John C Flansburgh, John S Linnell
I keep talking to the microphone The microphone, the microphone But it's like talking to a wall of brick It makes me sick, it makes me sick
And tired of trying to tell the microphone It doesn't seem to know That it's owned It doesn't know it's owned It doesn't know
A voice is speaking from beyond the grave From in a cave, beyond the grave The turning wheels of a cassette machine Will reenact the buried fact
The dog who hears it cannot understand His master's turned to sand And he's free He doesn't see he's free He doesn't see