| Sitting up late |
| The ash in the grate |
| His pretty face goes prison pale |
| There’s a shadow tapping on the window — |
| His old lover’s come in from the wind and rain |
| And he dreams burning memories |
| The girl ain’t at his door — he’s just getting bored |
| Oh he can’t refrain 'cos he’s got it on the brain |
| Wants to see the bright lights, gonna do it again |
| Pyromaniac, ain’t no turning back |
| Gonna make shralak and a heap of dead matches |
| Spread some on the ground, have a look around |
| Burn it to the ground and watch the engine’s rushing, gushing |
| Totally written off but there’s laughter at chaos |
| There’s a white coat, traipsing up the hallway |
| They’re gonna find a safe place for him to stay |
| There’s a white coat, ear to the door |
| It’s no good it’s as quiet as it’s ever been before |
| What a laugh, they think they’ve got him trapped — |
| They might as well relax, it’s too late for the axe |
| Didn’t want to be mad, didn’t want to be old — |
| Can’t see the bright lights for the smoke in the key-hole |
| Pyromaniac, ain’t no turning back |
| Gonna make shralak and a heap of dead matches |
| Spread some on the ground, have a look around |
| Burn it to the ground and watch the engine’s rushing, gushing |
| Totally written off but there’s laughter at chaos |