by Andy Partridge (written by Mark Thomas and Martin Wood)
It takes a week to talk a fortnight in my mind. It takes an age for me to calculate the time, And I don't consider miracles, And I won't consider facts. All this rigamarole's a time waste And the clock hands get the sack. In my hand, in my hand, I thought I'd got a grasp of things But it slipped through just like sand. With my hand, with my hand, I thought I'd mapped this countryside But it's still a foreign land, So I'll need a helping hand. In taking two steps forward I end up one back. In taking so much nonsense surely means I'll crack And I don't imagine changing And I'll shout I'm alright Jack, All these short cuts end in dead ends And there's just no turning back. In my hand, in my hand, I thought I'd got a grasp of things But it slipped through just like sand. With my hand, with my hand, I thought I'd mapped this countryside But it's still a foreign land, So I'll need a helping hand. If you take a trip to nowhere it might blow your mind. So take a friend, and in the end the answers you will find. In my hand, in my hand, I thought I'd got a grasp of things But it slipped through just like sand. With my hand, with my hand, I thought I'd mapped this countryside But it's still a foreign land So I'll need a helping hand. In my hand.