Hello, Marcel, my old friend.
I've come to talk, but you pretend.
Because precisioned is your creeping.
Making motions like you're weeping.
That precision that was planted in my brain
seems insane.
But you are bound... by silence.

His best routine, he walks along
there in place on cobblestone.
'Neath the halo of a streetlamp
exercises an art that's so camp.
And his guise was dabbed with the splash of the white makeup.
Some shakeup.
And he is bound... by silence.

And in his upturned hat I saw
ten dollars, five cents, maybe more.
He is talking without speaking.
We are hearing without listening.
Now I'm writing song... his voice will never share.
Would not dare.
Because he's bound... by silence.

Schools to learn this, I don't know.
Silent routines, can he grow?
Hear his words, you can't, I bet you.
Don't like mimes? You say, "I'll get you"?
But his words... like silent raindrops fell.

Don't heckle.
His will
is silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
to the whitefaced god they made.
And the people, they gave such clappin'
to a guy who's acting like Chaplin.
But I say there
"I've seen better entertainment
written on the subway walls
and tenement halls!"

Hey, Mister...
You're bound...
by silence.