| On the edge, a windowsill |
| Ponders his maker, ponders his will |
| To the street below, he just ain’t nothing |
| But he’s got a great view |
| And he sinks the needle deep, yeah |
| Oh, can’t touch the bottom |
| In too deep, yeah |
| Uh-huh, can’t touch the bottom |
| Oh, on the edge of a know-nothing town |
| Feeling quite superior, the age had come |
| To the sky above, he just ain’t nothing |
| But he’s got a great view |
| And he sinks the burning knife deep, yeah |
| Can’t touch the bottom |
| In too deep, yeah |
| Uh-huh, can’t touch the bottom |
| In too deep |
| Oh |
| Oh |
| On the edge of a Christmas-clean love |
| Young virgin down from heaven |
| Visiting hell |
| To the man above her, she just ain’t nothing |
| And she doesn’t like the view, she doesn’t like the view |
| She doesn’t like the view, but he sinks himself deep |
| Oh, can’t touch the bottom |
| In too deep, yeah |
| Uh-huh, can’t touch the bottom |
| Can’t touch the bottom |
| Deep, yeah |
| Oh, the bottom |
| Yeah |
| Oh, the bottom |
| Yeah |
| Oh, the bottom |
| Yeah |
| Oh, the bottom |
| Yeah |
| Oh, the bottom |
| Yeah |
| Oh |