There's a hole in your shirt,
And I can't help but wish
That you'd stretch it out,
And let me see inside you.

Your exterior siding is
Rather deceiving,
And your windows are always curtained.
Knock. Knock.
Nobody ever seems to be home.

Even if I had X-ray vision
and Mind-Reading glasses,
I still wouldn't be able to find you in that mass of muscle,
Behind that mask of mystery.
I'd proceed to fumble around inside you,
Hitting the metallic linings,
Making the buzzer sound,
Just like Operation.

But maybe it's the fact that
There's nothing to be figured out
Or everything to be discovered,
That makes me want to know.

That microscopic hole on your shoulder
Is the portal to my dreams,
The key to my curiosity,
But you'll never let me inside,
Because that's your favorite shirt.