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Days Of The WeekIt's Monday morning and the coffee's on the brillThe sun's a warning, sending signals to the moonI rise and fall in my accustomed rusted habitsI cant believe myselfAnd I can hardly stand it anymoreIt's Tuesday morningI file my nails and wash my hairYou're still sleeping like I'm hardly even thereThe smell of tangerines are floating through the windowI wonder if someday I'll turn into your widow or your maidIt's Wednesday morningI think you may have tried to cheatI smell the perfume on the inside of your sleeveI must admit I know I can be uite obsessiveI get dramatic and I'm ready to confess it to the lordIt's Thursday morningI could be pregnant; could be boredI want to love youI want to be the staple swordWe might be out of soap or real communicationAnd all the tricks my little brain plays on my nervesThey need to endIt's Friday morningThank god the weekend's almost hereLet's get some breakfast and get far away from hereSo I can tell you that I am a secret agentWho's stationed in a small hotel in Southeast AsiaBut that's a lie, you know I've never even been thereI tend to get real bored with my own head and try to make you care.