Mr. Blessington's Imperialist Plot

Pretty Patricia was a nervous wreck

Deadened by the Darvocet

Furnished by a charlatan

Posing as a pharmacist



Propped behind a pearly desk

She hoists the phone with burdened breath

And hands she holds for reasons wanton

Is the whirling dervish games



This is just the receptionist

The skeletons and hallowed halls 

Outnumber every worker bee buzzing right through this honey comb



And I am just a lonely drone

With a notepad and a picture phone

Whose nectar is a collection of transgressions and subversive flaws



Darrell's darling carries all of HR on his back

Can only hide Gisette because the fetish waftings of croquettes



Well Mrs. Darla’s down the hall

She keeps a watchful eye 

It's on accounts receivable

Leaving it blind to the concubine



Lady Darla’s not the cleanest 

Grape inside the crops

She keeps her eyes inside accountants 

As she skims right off the top



Her saccharine little skins of cream

She sneaks out in her hosiery

To hopefully she pumps the petty plunder in the slots



Every now and then

The best laid plans of mice and men

Fall apart at hands

Of unassuming champions

Collecting all the dirt

To build a tower to the sky

Slaving in this basement

One day this will all be mine

One day this will all be mine

One day this will all be mine



She was so outwardly nonpareil

I was enraptured by the act 

Of cracking her seamless shell

Catching Esteban with hand in his till is muy facil

But this girl's skills are past the run of the mill



We command with abandon the plot

Take what he got

Setting up shop with a cloud 8 view at the top

And everybody’s got bones

Hers are harder to spot

With her appointments pinned down and her hair done up



I devote everything that I’ve got

To stalking this fox

There's got to be a fracture in her porcelain plot

That’s where I slipped up

Lost in her wash

She doubled back upon her tracks and she caught me off guard



She’s impossibly smart

I am defeated at my own game

Caught me collecting dirt

To blackmail them for my own gain



A tower made of dirt

Is just a castle built from glass

And a pocket full of stones until the last one's cast



Every now and then

The best laid plans of mice and men

Fall apart at hands

Of unassuming champions

Collecting so much dirt

That I was buried down alive

Slaving in this basement

Until the day I die

Until the day I die

Until the day I die