Оригинален текст
Dishes and satellites spreading our looks
Sharing us for a profit, or so i've been told
His entire sex life was being watched on the net
His somehow solitary sex life was being
broadcasted as he plays:
I count on you, my faithfull ones
Following my every stroke
I've got nothing to hide
I know it's kind of wrong
Something liquid flying to the lens
Certainly serious but never desperate
I know it's sort of wrong to behave like this
And when the saints go marching in,
he's a devil in disguise
Hungry for a thousand kicks,
emulating humankind
Searching for my every bone,
just doing their thing
I count on you, the faithfull ones
Following my every stroke
With nothing to hide, I know it's kind of wrong