Lyrics:

Feeling like a percolator
Up and down the escalator
Pick out a new nomenclature
Pop it in the incubator
Watch the faces change inside
Like Jekyll into Mr. Hyde
Never turn and look away
There's always something else to say

Soon the tide will turn again
The artist will return and then
As history will repeat itself
He'll pull the paintings from his shelf
He'll dust them off and clean them up
He'll drop the cards and raise the cup
He's going back to work today
Like some go back to church to pray

The easel is in front of him
He's working on another whim
He pulls his brushes from the drawer
And picks the paints up off the floor
A pattern there will soon emerge
He knows that he is on the verge
Of coming back into his own
To find that he was not alone

Don't know where he's going
Don't know where he's been
Artist was on holiday
He's back at work again
Don't know where he's going
Don't know where he's been
Artist was on holiday
He's back at work again
He's back at work again
He's back at work again
He's back at work again

The object is an epitaph
He isolates and photographs
A shadow falls where light is cast
A view into the object's past
Now there exists within the plane
Two objects more or less the same
He listens to the laws of chance
Invokes a self-hypnotic trance
Hypnotic trance, hypnotic trance...

Don't know where he's going
Don't know where he's been
Artist was on holiday
He's back at work again

Don't know where he's going
Don't know where he's been
Artist was on holiday
He's back at work again