| Song | The Index |
| Artist | Piano Magic |
| Album | Artists' Rifles |
| I have thought about you in your Summer abode | |
| In your lunatic smock, in chronicle mode | |
| The typewriter smack as you nail in the words | |
| And the turntable's drunk reflection occurs | |
| I have thought about you in your grasshopper pose | |
| And the cigarette smoke carving trails through your clothes | |
| Your Spanish guitar pins your bed to the floor | |
| So your dreams can't escape and they're yours evermore | |
| Paris, she bleeds night into her cup | |
| As you index the birds and you label them up |