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I think it was Thursday, |
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I think it was late, |
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1930 - Eight. |
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Got a letter from Hiro, |
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but left out the date |
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He said he was waiting |
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for an outbreak. |
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Took a look in the mirror, |
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should have been me. |
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But there was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, |
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nothing to see. |
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I draw apart the curtains, |
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trying to look downstairs |
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It was utterly futile, |
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so I combed my hair |
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-CHORUS- |
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but all the kids in the factory say |
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my letter from Hiro came too late |
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communication, keeps me out of touch. |
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the sense means nothing, |
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well nothing much, |
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like the sign on the door, |
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too hard to see too soft to touch, |
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the age of reason, |
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is out to lunch. |
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but all the kids in the factory say, |
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my letter from Hiro, came too late |
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too late, too late, too late |
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9 o'clock in the morning, |
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sun rising in my head, |
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and I'm not quite sure if I'm just insecure |
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or if the problem is simply that we don't understand |
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about the guns and the crossfire, |
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and the social disease. |
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and while the sun was rising somewhere in the east |
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and then a "frag" meant more to Hiro than to me |
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And all the kids in the factory say, |
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my letter from Hiro came too late. |
|
BGN |
