Untitled Song in A

Everything dies and passes away shouldn't you know that it's true.

But since we are here and breathing today shouldn't we see it through.

Clowns paint tears on tracked faces the dancers aren't dancing at all.

Telephones ringing machines do the talking there's no one there to answer the call.

The music comes soft from the concert hall and and we don't have a care for anything at all

The angels are bitter but that how it goes, the saxophone player blows

a tune from the basement.

Your stack of cards makes a pretty house but you'd swear it's stronger than cardboard

Past meets future trivial here and nows, the present's an uncomfortable bore.

Jesus Christus, builds doghouses, he'll sell you one for a dollar

it protects you from the human monsoon, as long as you don't take off your collar.

Dodging traffic is everyone's business but the preacher's hoping that it's not endless.

Coloured schemed suits file in from the weather.

It doesn't get any better

always a coin away.

Visions are blurry but everyone talks, around the corner a dirty phone-booth walks

to an all night diner to ask for some change, people don't you think it's strange,

here you get used to it.

Your hair like a fire licks your face and you move with subtle grace.

Your eyes solve riddles, lips give solace

if you go it'll be a waste.

Flapping your wings against the chest of death, he holds you tightly by the heart

you've escaped with love for far too long now but you swear it's worth just a part.

Now you wait at the rendezvous

in your summer dress with a letter to

the stranger who made it hard for you

to stay inside your skin.

It's a tragic comedy.

And the voices of children echo through time

they are tinted with sorrow a particular kind

frozen but mobile dementia of love

we must be considerate of

the faces in the window.