Running through my backbrain in the morning
|
I think that what I'm getting is a warning
|
Messages are scrambled but they're urgent
|
Something in the cortex 'bout detergent
|
|
I think it's coming clearer
|
I can see it in the mirror
|
Heading for a relapse
|
Clogging up the synapse
|
Or is it just Cassandra yawning?
|
|
Killers in the streets are wearing striped pants
|
They are interfering with my larynx
|
My brother and my sister joined the army
|
They promise that they do not mean to harm me
|
|
Messages messages Persecution Persecution messages messages.....
|
|
Now it's growing dimmer
|
I can see the mirror shimmer
|
Sounds are getting stranger
|
warning me of danger
|
Or can it be that I am merely tired?
|
|
There's a roaring in my ears that will not die
|
And signals in the sky I can't identify
|
My eyes are melting and my lips are moving
|
And the words that I am hearing are not soothing
|
|
Breathing's getting harder
|
There's nothing in the larder
|
The building's falling over
|
Or the Sun is going nova
|
Or is it my old-fashioned paranioa?
|
|
I think that it's important information
|
giving me my future destination
|
Fragments of mysterious conversation
|
Lend the game a frightening complication
|
|
I know they're trying to tell me
|
What can they want to sell me?
|
The floor is undulating
|
My bones are soft and aching
|
Or have I temporarily lost my bearing?
|
|
Every little sound is charged with meaning
|
Percentage bandits riding out of ealing
|
Stuttering, shouting, crying, and declaiming
|
Sentences are waxing, now they're waning
|
I'm nearly out of letters
|
From my elders and my betters
|
The Killer's moving faster
|
He tells me that he's my master
|
Or was he just asking me "the time please?"
|
|
-----------------
|
Running Through The Back Brain
|
Hawkwind |