| The mascaraed blond from the Berliner bar
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| Rises at twilight, gets dressed in a daze
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| Black leather crackles, cold water runs
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| As she touches the walls of her memory maze
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| The shadows of men she has known fill her day
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| She’s held half the world in her arms so they say
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| But she wakes up without them with a hole in her heart
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| And she puts on her clothes, lives her life behind bars
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| Mascaraed blond from the Berliner bar
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| Sighs at the skylight, gets lost in the haze
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| Black leather crackles and cold water runs
|
| As she touches the walls of her memory maze
|
| Someone got stranded in no man’s land
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| Dancing in the spotlight to the sound of clapping hands
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| Nobody knows whose side he was on
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| It’s a risk that you take in no man’s land
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| Nobody knows what made him decide
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| To run for freedom and to certain suicide
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| When they turn off the guns and his fingers uncurl
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| He’s clutching a photograph of a Berlin party girl
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| Come in from your checkpoints on your lonely roads
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| Come in from your ditches in your silent fields
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| Where intensified light from a rifle sight
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| Makes the darkness day and the day too bright, too bright
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| We wake up without you
|
| We wake up without you
|
| We wake up without you
|
| We wake up without you
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| With a hole in our hearts
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| With a hole in our hearts
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| You mad dog shaven head, bottle boy freaks
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| In martens and khaki drunk on sake
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| You stare at yourself in the cruel flush of dawn
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| Terrified, sunken eyed, withered and drawn
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| The butcher, the baker, the munitions maker
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| The over achiever, the armistice breaker
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| The free-base instructor, the lightning conductor
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| The psycho, the sailor, the tanker, the tailor
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| The black market mailer, the quick an the dead
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| The spotlight dancer, the quick and the dead
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| The quick and the dead, the quick and the dead
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| We wake up without you
|
| Yeah, we wake up without you
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| With a hole in our hearts
|
| The mascaraed blond from the Berliner bar
|
| Rises at twilight, gets dressed in a daze |