| Well, wood burns, and metal rusts
|
| So, darling, what’s to become of us
|
| When the weather turns, and they say it must
|
| Well, we’ll need coats for the both of us
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| But the wool is thin and it’s full of holes
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| And there’s no heat in this abandoned bus
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| So will we go alone, out on our own
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| Oh, darling, what’s to become of us
|
| Well, boats sink into the sea
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| And airplanes that crash like computer screens
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| And signals fail, trains derail
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| And car bonnets crumple like magazines
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| ‘Til they’re put in piles like stacks of tiles
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| In a yard full of fridges and broken stuff
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| Will we go alone out on our own
|
| Oh, darling, what’s to become of us
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| We will bite our noses off to spite our faces
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| Both of us will rust like metal fences in the rain
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| You will pour the gasoline and I will spark the matches
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| We will burn within our fire, we will burn within our flames
|
| Well, yeast ferments and milk sours
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| When it’s out of the fridge for too many hours
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| Well, we lament in separate towers
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| Never knowing if we’re brave or if we’re cowards
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| For they pour cement down this hole of ours
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| And we’ll be stuck under stones and flowers
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| Will we go alone out on our own
|
| Oh, darling, that’s what will become of us |