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007 in the sky with the sun

in a super-surveilance SR-71

this man holds the secret key

now he starts deprogramming

I've got agents on my back

in three-piece suits and a black sedan

and I know they're all watching me

he's an infra-red cowboy that hides in the dark

shoots me with penethol then makes me talk

he's the tap on my phone or the sweat on my neck

he's the tap on my shoulder that I never expect

no place to run, no time to hide

no shoulders to cry on, no place to hide

who do I trust, who do I blame

when the modern witch hunt draws my name