He grew up strong and he grew up mean and his fists got hard and his wits got keen, but he still couldn't touch a thing.
Each of his hands is dipped in gold to draw you in to what he has. Can't be touched, cannot be held: to caress them spells your death. And his breath is sinuous as it rolls about his head. His affliction is quite serious and to you he'll put an end. This is the man with the golden hands, the Midas touch and a treacherous plan. His steely eyes and your imminent demise, there's a smile on his face as he waves Goodbye. So across the room on a silver spoon, eating sweet Medusa pie. You can't help yourself but you catch yourself whispering old lullabies. You know he's got you, entranced and robbed you of your chance to be a rose. This handsome man with golden hands, handsome comes and handsome goes.