There's a man down in the valley Who doesn't speak in his own tongue He bares a grudge against the English A tune to which his songs are sung There's
It?s the farthest place I?ve ever been It?s a new frontier for me And you balance things Like you wouldn?t believe When you should just let things be
Who?ll do for him Child of the fifties With no common sense No easy resting place Only lichen on beaches Oil on gun barrel And the hard taste of pennies
She was no longer a user Don?t think she realized we knew that Not one to make a fuss Why this and not something else Wasn?t it obvious? She made such
And when it appeared It was a flaming book of matches A hundred and twenty-five spheres On a parquet floor
Under yellow light Comes the face of tomorrow Lights the fuse Gives meaning to All that was previously hollow To a soundtrack of sirens And mute aspiration
Here we are then, here we are Notes from a suicide And he will never ever be The Greatest Living Englishman It?s such a melancholy blue Or a grey of
Half-life She moves in a half-life Imperfect From a place on the stairs Or sat in the backseat Sometimes you?re only a passenger In the time of your
(Instrumental)
