Bowie, you're hiding under my bed

Bowie,

you're hiding under my bed

and yet someone told me you were thought dead

no longer playing with the ground controls and spinning knobs,

singing for the few available spaceman jobs;

you were quite the looker,

dressing like an expensive alien hooker

in the backseat of your car 

playing with Ziggy's guitar;

oh, yes, biting the dust because you must

holding hands with a young China Girl;

a handful of roses, a bright red wig and a pearl

like a Spiders from Mars frontal attack,

but i've heard you're never coming back

and the genie is so far out of the bottle,

tearing thru New York City streets at full throttle,

like an instant revelation,

heading Station to Station;

so hey man, wham bam and thank you ma'am.

if you're tired of this channel and think you're gonna switch,

come back tomorrow same time to see the traveling Queen Bitch!

so take your time; it's a special home delivery:

you can eat whatever you see!

and whenever you take a look inside,

it'll be a Rock n Roll Suicide.