They took your picture And hung it in their gallery, Close beside the classical illusions they've collected. And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust And web of lies, my portrait too. They took your number And framed it in their gallery, Hung between the mythical and puzzles they've neglected. And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust And web of lies my portrait too; And there, beneath the isinglass that masks And smudges light, my number too. They took your address And filed it in their gallery, Hard against the library of cards they have selected. And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust And web of lies my portrait too; And there, beneath the isinglass that masks And smudges light, my number too; And there, below the microscope of blind Electric eyes, my address too. They've got your number!