Inside every teenage girl there's a fountain. Inside every young pair of pants there's a mountain. Inside every mother's eyes is Tommy Tinkrem's bed. Inside every candidate waits a grateful dead. I make it a thing when I'm on my own to relieve myself. I make it a thing when I gazelle on stage to believe in myself. I make it a thing to glance in window panes and look pleased with myself. Yeah and pretend I'm walking home. I took it so bad I sat in the correction room. Took me a fag and a kick in the moon. Well I ain't gonna suck no radar wing. Because inside this tin is tin. Would you like to techno-plate cause I'm your candidate. Oh yeah. It's a matter of life. And the way you walk you've got a BrylCream queen. It's a matter of tact. In the things you talk that keeps his passport clean. A matter of fact. That a cock ain't a cock on a twelve inch screen. So I'll pretend I'm walking home. You don't have to scream a lot to keep an age in tune. You don't have to scream a lot to predict monsoons. You don't have to paint my contact black. Now I've hustled a pair of jeans. Do I have to give your money back when I'm the Fuhrerling. I'll make you a deal. I'll say I came from from Earth and my tongue is taped. I'll make you a deal. You can get your kicks on the candidate. I'll make you a deal. For your future's sake I'm the candidate. Let's pretend we're walking home. uh-huh uh-huh. I'm the candidate. I'm the candidate.