Bad things to good folks ensue.
Can’t take my vice off o’ you.
I haven’t tightened it much,
but even so, it does clutch.
This brand of love doesn’t swive
but makes you feel more alive.
Bad things to good folks ensue.
Can’t take my vice off o’ you

Hard it is, true, to compare
most love to this, which is rare.
Some might even call me freak,
but I’m not weird as a geek
who programs code that will steal
for firms that with the gov. deal.
I’m good compared to this crew
that has eyes all over you.

I clutch you, baby
and hope it’s not too tight.
I squeeze you, baby—
that vice, like jaws, will bite
I got you, baby, trussed in a certain way.
A pity, baby, that you don’t want to play;
a pity, baby, that you think it’s outré.
I’m betting, baby, that you come to.

Bad things to good folks ensue,
such as the spies watching you.
They eye each key that you touch;
they want to scope you so much.
And while they talk “freedom” jive,
they’re loathe to let freedom thrive.
Bad things to good folks ensue.
Can’t take their eyes off o’ you.

So, what’s worse, baby,
a vice that’s kinda tight
or he’s and ladies
monitored days and night?
Like facebook, baby? Trust me, you gave away
your digits, baby—data they store each day.
Your digits, baby, have become pay for play.
Relative, baby—trussed or the facebook/google/yahoo/etc. way?