Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
|
A typewriter cackles out a stream of memories
|
Drying out a conscience, evicting a nightmare
|
Opening the doors for the dreams to come home
|
|
We live out lives in private shells
|
Ignore out senses and fool ourselves
|
Into thinking that out there there's someone else cares
|
Someone to answer all our prayers
|
|
Are we too far gone, are we so irresponsible
|
Have we lost our balls, or do we just not care
|
We're terminal cases that keep talking medicine
|
Pretending the end isn't quite that near
|
We make futile gestures, act to the cameras
|
With our made up faces and PR smiles
|
And when the angel comes down to deliver us
|
We'll find out after all, we're only men of straw
|
|
But everything is still the same
|
Passing the time passing out the blame
|
We carry on in the same old way
|
We'll find out we left it too late one day
|
To say what we meant to say
|
|
Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the water
|
Those problems seem to arise the ones you never really thought of
|
The feeling you get is similar to some sort of drowning
|
When you are out of your mind, out of your depth
|
You should have taken soundings
|
We're clutching at straws, we're clutching at straws clutching at straws
|
|
And if you ever come across us don't give us your sympathy
|
You can buy us a drink and just shake our hands
|
And you'll recognise by the reflections in our eyes
|
That deep down inside we're all one and the same
|
We're clutching at straws still drowning
|
|
-----------------
|
The Last Straw
|
| Fish |
