| And in the last days of the world of plastic records
|
| He takes the car into town
|
| He hears the voices of salvation through the static
|
| Just turns the volume down
|
| A chain link fence round a boarded up arcade
|
| Towers of glass that petroleum has made
|
| But he wouldn’t have been born
|
| At any other moment in the world
|
| And in the morning he will hear the silver kettle
|
| Calling him out of his sleep
|
| The world outside goes by in plastic and in metal
|
| He’s got his secrets to keep
|
| The daily news forms a pattern on TV
|
| Violence first, then a cat stuck up a tree
|
| But he wouldn’t have been born
|
| At any other moment in this world
|
| One o’clock and the office empties out
|
| He watches as they pass
|
| Nostalgic for something intangible
|
| A time that never was
|
| There is a crack along the plaster in the kitchen
|
| It forms the shape of her face
|
| Just for a moment he will trace it with his finger
|
| One day he’ll paint her away
|
| He sees her now — she’s got a clean white shirt on
|
| She’s someone he’d just love to get the dirt on
|
| And she couldn’t have been born
|
| At any other moment in the world |