|
Like a cloud his fingers explode |
|
On the typewriter ribbon, the shadow grows |
|
His heart's in a bowl behind the bank |
|
And every evening when he get home |
|
To make his supper and eat it alone |
|
His black shirt cries while his shoes get cold |
|
It's just a dream he keeps having |
|
And it doesn't seem to mean anything |
|
And it doesn't seem to mean anything |
|
One summer, a suicide |
|
Another autumn, a traveler's guide |
|
He hits snooze twice before he dies |
|
And every evening when he get home |
|
To make his supper and eat it alone |
|
His black shirt cries while his shoes get cold |
|
It's just a dream he keeps having |
|
And it doesn't seem to mean anything |
|
It's just a dream he keeps having |
|
He feels lucky to have you here |
|
In his kitchen, in your chair |
|
Sometimes he forgets that you're even there |
|
It's just a dream he keeps having |
|
And it doesn't seem to mean anything |
|
It's just a dream he keeps having |
|
It's just a dream |
|
And it doesn't seem to mean anything |
