Not all tiring races are run in France.
Perhaps tonight he'll dope with sleeping pills!
He wanders up and down the hall
The carpet muffles each footfall
He's on the Tour de Trance
He circles through the house each night
Without the aid of guides or lights
He's on the Tour de Trance
He climbs the stairwell Pyrenees
He stubs his toes and bangs his knees
But dons the yellow B.V.D.s
He's won the Tour de Trance
Then morning comes—it's time to rise
He's still worn out; with bleary eyes
He leaves the house; it's no surprise
All day he'll celebrate his prize
For last night's Tour de Trance
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