Lyrics: Thom Yorke
Music: Jonny Greenwood/Nigel Godrich/Thom Yorke/Tom Skinner
Down a rabbit hole
We go
As the flames grow higher
For unbelievers
Making mushrooms out of men
Till she turns us back again
To a face of solid gold
Solid gold
Sycophantic fawners
In double quick time
The beginning at the end
Till she turns us back again
First she'll pull your fingers off
And then she'll pull your toes
And then she'll steal the photos from your phone
But you won't notice
Our echo doesn't hear us
Anymore
Hanging on a cloth edge
By its fingers
Making mushrooms out of men
That's okay I guess
If you like this kind of, kind of thing
This kind of thin, thin, thin, thin thing
These kind of mushrooms
These kind of ripples
These kind of ripples
This kind of thin, thin, thin, thin, thin thing
Like this kind of thing
Like this kind of thin, thin thing
Like this kind of thing
Like this kind of thing
Like this kind of thing
Like this kind of thing
Like this kind of