Eyes are sober and this is the plan: I'm sitting in a car heading Neverland. A fancy man, a fancy man - he's pointing with the fingers that are left on his hand. Eyes are hazel but far too cold, looking out for love, but none of us can. Where is the monkey that I have been told of? I'm staring at the money that money that burns in my hand. I'm dancing for dollars and for a fancy man.
Come right over, I'll knock on your shoulder. This is a story and this is what I've planned. An angry man, an angry man - nothing is more fatal than an angry man. Vulnerable heights feed the hand that bites me, following the steam into another room. Standing in the corner, is this my home? Showing us love, but none of us can. I'm singing for money that burns in my hand.
Tell me, will I make it home tonight?
I'm doing it for dollars and for a fancy man. I've got a lot of money that burns in my hand.