| Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
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| A typewriter cackles out a stream of memories
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| Drying out a conscience, evicting a nightmare
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| Opening the doors for the dreams to come home
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| We live out lives in private shells
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| Ignore out senses and fool ourselves
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| Into thinking that out there there’s someone else cares
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| Someone to answer all our prayers
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| Are we too far gone, are we so irresponsible
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| Have we lost our balls, or do we just not care
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| We’re terminal cases that keep talking medicine
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| Pretending the end isn’t quite that near
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| We make futile gestures, act to the cameras
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| With our made up faces and pr smiles
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| And when the angel comes down to deliver us
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| We’ll find out after all, we’re only men of straw
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| But everything is still the same
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| Passing the time passing out the blame
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| We carry on in the same old way
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| We’ll find out we left it too late one day
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| To say what we meant to say
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| Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the water
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| Those problems seem to arise the ones you never really thought of
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| The feeling you get is similar to some sort of drowning
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| When you are out of your mind, out of your depth
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| You should have taken soundings
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| We’re clutching at straws, we’re clutching at straws clutching at straws
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| And if you ever come across us don’t give us your sympathy
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| You can buy us a drink and just shake our hands
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| And you’ll recognise by the reflections in our eyes
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| That deep down inside we’re all one and the same
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| We’re clutching at straws still drowning |