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Home is where you're brought up |
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And where it all began |
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Where you're roots were stretching out |
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On foreign land |
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You like it or might leave it |
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You stay or you may roam |
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They say it's like the heart |
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Without a home |
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The young ones getting out of here |
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The rest stays where they are |
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And most of them turn |
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Petit bourgeois |
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Cause it's so simple |
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To feel curled up here |
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So laid back when you're drunk |
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While flushing down the shape of things |
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To come |
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And so we stumbled down the alleys |
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While kicking out the lights |
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And we argued who was wrong |
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And who was right |
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Then we hooked up on the good girls |
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On the hills of broken glass |
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When they hooked on us we fled |
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And took the bus |
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We wrote a hundred lovesongs |
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And poems all those years |
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Where we sang about our hopes |
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And doubts and fears |
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Someone push the break |
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Someone push the break |
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And stop over for a minute |
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Someone get along |
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Someone get along |
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With us |
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This place is packed with creepers |
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With hypocrites and fools |
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As long as the cars stay running |
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They stay amused |
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It's the narrow minded attitude |
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That made us feel inspired |
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But in trade for any vision |
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We got tired |
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When I look into your eyes |
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I realize they stand and stare |
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You're a bunch of saveaholics |
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In despair |
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Oh I've never seen such a beauty |
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Showing such an ugly face |
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I've never been in a richer |
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Poorer place |
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It's that love and hate relationship |
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That keeps us hanging on |
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But one early winter morning |
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We'll be gone |
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Someone push the break |
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Someone push the break |
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And stop over for a minute |
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Someone get along |
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Someone get along |
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With us |
