Yoko Ono As Performance Art

Lyrics

She sits on her knees for us, in a big room where everyone in the audience has a pair of scissors, and permits us to snip away her clothes. One-by-one we strip her layer-by-layer. Anticipating her to turn suddenly afraid. Eventually to plead. We want
 that of her. Our sick American aesthetics tell us that she is the death
 of rock and roll, of the blue eyed man
 in the round glasses. She did not
 take his bullet after all. We remember. Now she is a shadow-wife. Mother
 to an all American boy, practically
 a Kennedy but less politicized. We want to strip her down to her yellow- to the one truly discernable difference. We want to show her she is not at home. And she will let us. Perfectly passive. It drives us mad. In a big room each takes his piece of her. But she never disappears. No matter how deeply we cut. And she never cries, either.