Dishes and satellites spreading our looks

Sharing us for a profit, or so i've been told

His entire sex life was being watched on the net

His somehow solitary sex life was being

broadcasted as he plays:

I count on you, my faithfull ones

Following my every stroke

I've got nothing to hide

I know it's kind of wrong



Something liquid flying to the lens

Certainly serious but never desperate

I know it's sort of wrong to behave like this

And when the saints go marching in,

he's a devil in disguise

Hungry for a thousand kicks,

emulating humankind

Searching for my every bone,

just doing their thing



I count on you, the faithfull ones

Following my every stroke

With nothing to hide, I know it's kind of wrong