| Manheim; |
| rainy Saturday with no money nor friend,
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| only Tequila can end the boredom.
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| Try to reach London for a pocket of hope;
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| we’re children, we grope in the dark.
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| Hugh spends his last Mark on coffee and cheese…
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| I feel just like a refugee…
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| Rathaus-keepers and traffic police,
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| middle-aged maids with rotting teeth
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| industrial magazines and old Sunday Times;
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| reading material/bleeding lines.
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| What are we doing here?
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| Memorial manace, eager for revenge,
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| has begun to bend our minds.
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| Shower-curtain imperative in the presence of acid;
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| now, feeling placid is death.
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| I try to hold my breath as the P.A. |
| comes down…
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| here we all are in Ktown!
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| The Big Wheel never fails to grind around;
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| it drags me up/drags me down
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| Seven sentenses wonder 'Can this be real,
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| or am I become a performing seal?'
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| Why are we dying here?
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| I walk the streets alone, try to find a sign of love,
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| I’ve crushed the plaster-bone in the freaky clubs,
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| I have bit the fruit
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| but all I live for is to play
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| and I’m tired of the nights and the days
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| of airports, taxis and motorway showers,
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| grooping for a key in the afterhours.
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| David takes to travelling in the van,
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| He knows that we all can understand;
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| we’re at the mercy of the Kosmos Tour,
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| making a pilgrimage to the German Lourdes…
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| but we’re still crippled here.
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| Cathedrals spiral skywards, I think I’m getting vertigo,
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| I think I don’t know what is real.
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| On a more sudden spotlight, one more madness is over…
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| I must not show a sign of fear.
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| Words echo round my ears, I think I’m going to laugh…
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| think I’ll just go and take a bath, Guess I’ll wash my clothes,
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| don’t you know I’ll grow to go and make my name,
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| maybe a servant in the Fame game;
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| stake my sane and rest my life on the line…
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| Now lay me asunder and rend my mind;
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| at the fall of the curtain let this be my ghost… |