Written by Tim Freedman with his friends from Machine Gun Fellatio, it starts out as a sentimental lament of love at a distance. But loneliness means falling back on oneself - not always a pretty sight. His exhortations regress into unfettered depravity, resembling the lonely hearts classifieds of Picture Magazine. The velvety strings at the head are gradually swallowed by a wall of guitar, just as, in the lyric, sweet solitude becomes the fuel for carnality.

You'll be walking your dog in a few hours
I'll be asleep in my brother's house
You're a thousand miles away
With food between your teeth
Come up for summer I've got a place near the beach
There's room for your dog

There's no aphrodisiac like loneliness
Truth beauty and a picture of you

There's no aphrodisiac like loneliness
Youth truth beauty fame boredom and a bottle of pills

There's no aphrodisiac like loneliness
You shouldn't leave me alone

There's no aphrodisiac like loneliness
Bare feet like a tom-boy and a crooked smile

Truth youth beauty fame boredom red hair no hair innocence
Saturday and a picture of you
A letter to you on a cassette
You shouldn't leave me alone

Forty shaved sexy wants to do it all day
With a gun-totin' trigger-happy tranny named Kinky Renée
Tired teacher twenty-eight seeks regular meetings for masculine muscular nappy-clad brutal breeding
While his wife rough-wrestles with a puppy all aquiver
On a wine-soaked strobe-lit Asiatic hall of mirrors and a dash of loneliness
There's no aphrodisiac quite like it
Truth youth beauty fame boredom red hair no hair innocence impunity and a picture of you
I got a video set-up me, love you short time, she pay me suck his finger with some fine wine