| In leaving, he took a look out
|
| Wet streets, now he’s down the stairwell
|
| The path on which he’s travelled so much
|
| Familiarity’s within his clutch
|
| The breeze cuts into his raincoat
|
| Sidewalk moves below his feet slow
|
| Keeps walking in a private haze
|
| Faces pass, never break his gaze
|
| He ambles with a fanciful thought
|
| An outing of cackles enticed by a single thought
|
| He enters the usual café
|
| Drinks a cup and is on his way
|
| But he’s not headed for a lively space
|
| He’s well content with his own place
|
| What others see as a horrible shame
|
| The fact that his days are all the same
|
| Somewhere people own a habit
|
| But deny any proof they have it
|
| Somewhere he’ll sit parading his thoughts
|
| Past a crowd of clowns waving like robots
|
| His world in order and locked from inside
|
| The pull-tab key is safe in his pocket
|
| But he’s not headed for a lively place
|
| He’s well content with his own space
|
| What others see as a terrible shame
|
| The fact that his days are all the same
|
| He ambles with a fanciful thought
|
| And familiarity is all he’s got
|
| In leaving, he took a look out
|
| Wet streets, now he’s down the stairwell
|
| The path on which he’s travelled so much
|
| Familiarity’s within his clutch
|
| But he’s not headed for a lively space
|
| He’s well content with his own place
|
| What others see as a horrible shame
|
| His mind’s made up in any case
|
| What others see as a terrible shame
|
| He’s well content with his own place
|
| What others see as a horrible shame
|
| The fact is he’ll never change |