One, two, threenOne, two, threennThis is me and my big scenenI'm happily bruised from a weekend spent with younOn your back on the bednYou put your legs up straight and said that I'm meantnTo have your feet pushed firm to my stomachnWith our fingers locked and my palms on yoursnMy toes parted way with the floornI leant in and you helped me to soarnI lifted my arms skywardnnThis time next week I will benYour very own flying machinenYour very own flying machinennThere's nothing worth singing but babadadadan'Cause these words will run right outnnNothing's fun anymorenLet's count to four in 3/4 timenAnd stop when we get tongue tiednOne, two, three, fournOne, two, three, fournOne, two, three, fournOne, two, threennDid you say fuck?