|
It's my turn |
|
It's your turn |
|
It's my turn |
|
Time to leave |
|
Take a bag |
|
And pack it neat |
|
I've got no future so I'm marching East |
|
Corpses in cardboard boxes |
|
A mystery to the world |
|
It's my turn |
|
It's your turn |
|
It's my turn |
|
Time to leave |
|
Take a bag |
|
And pack it neat |
|
I've got no future so I'm marching East |
|
Corpses in cardboard boxes |
|
A mystery to the world |
|
I don't feel exalted driving Japanese cars |
|
And I don't see the value |
|
Of losing paths like well-made rafts |
|
It's not enough to cling to |
|
Something I was driving haunts my recollection |
|
And my frozen face |
|
It warrents your affection |
|
And I hate the fact |
|
I always hate the fact |
|
I'd like a room in St. Petersburg |
|
With rotting walls and character |
|
Where I can hide from strangers' eyes |
|
And be a mystery to the world |
|
And be a mystery to the world |
