| We are late like a midnight train that’s running nowhere |
| We are sticks, we are stones, we are broken bones, we are hot air |
| We are under the guillotine trying to fix our hair |
| There’s computers clicking binary genius into the night |
| There are formulas, remedies, reasons, there is hindsight |
| There’s the smell of artillery, there’s the sky alight |
| We are bedrock, we’re underground, we are sharp as the rain |
| We are gathering pace, we are thunder wrapped in cellophane |
| We are running from the storms of our youth into more of the same |
| There’s a motorway service station on a January day |
| There’s a lunchtime radio show, there’s the shit that they play |
| There’s the percussion of buttons and keys in a cyber café |
| We are some distant TV channel, a lesson grown old |
| We are rhythm and rhyme, partners in crime, we are fools gold |
| We are free as the wind through the trees or so we are told |
| There’s some faded out manuscript paper and an old clarinet |
| There is cash on the table, there’s a tapestry alphabet |
| There’s the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet |
| There’s the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet |
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