|
All this noise is making me nervous |
|
I feel every slammed door and drunken laugh |
|
Sometimes there's no room for breathing |
|
Take me to a colony and leave me in |
|
Antarctica |
|
The living germs keep these buildings alive |
|
And every day we feed them with our dirt and rotten memories |
|
The front window in the house his mother left him |
|
Is just another beacon in a sea of dark yellow |
|
This place speaks to him, it's got its own language |
|
Cold comfort through the gill cracked plaster |
|
Looks at him with eyes in paint blisters |
|
Squeezes music through cheap transistors |
|
Voices of mothers with their prisoners for brothers |
|
And the bug-eyed little creatures terrifying stupid teachers |
|
Who then take it out on weaklings, spawning killing spree control freaks |
|
Who get married in their prisons to abused lonely women |
|
And I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging |
|
Like I've never held on to anything in my life |
|
I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging to you |
|
And I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging |
|
Like I've never held on to anything in my life |
|
I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging to you |
|
And I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging |
|
Like I've never held on to anything in my life |
|
I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging to you |
|
And I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging |
|
Like I've never held on to anything in my life |
|
I'm clean and |
|
I'm clinging to you |
