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by Andy Partridge (written by Mark Thomas and Martin Wood)

It takes a week to talk a fortnight in my mind.
It takes an age for me to calculate the time,
And I don't consider miracles,
And I won't consider facts.
All this rigamarole's a time waste
And the clock hands get the sack.

In my hand, in my hand,
I thought I'd got a grasp of things
But it slipped through just like sand.
With my hand, with my hand,
I thought I'd mapped this countryside
But it's still a foreign land,
So I'll need a helping hand.

In taking two steps forward I end up one back.
In taking so much nonsense surely means I'll crack
And I don't imagine changing
And I'll shout I'm alright Jack,
All these short cuts end in dead ends
And there's just no turning back.

In my hand, in my hand,
I thought I'd got a grasp of things
But it slipped through just like sand.
With my hand, with my hand,
I thought I'd mapped this countryside
But it's still a foreign land,
So I'll need a helping hand.

If you take a trip to nowhere it might blow your mind.
So take a friend, and in the end the answers you will find.

In my hand, in my hand,
I thought I'd got a grasp of things
But it slipped through just like sand.
With my hand, with my hand,
I thought I'd mapped this countryside
But it's still a foreign land
So I'll need a helping hand.
In my hand.

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