| In the ashtray city where I built my home
|
| And Mum says «son will you come back home»
|
| When I rolled up papers to inflict the drone
|
| And Gus sits by and says «you have to know»
|
| And I let go of your hot sweet hand
|
| And you turned back say I’m a weird man
|
| And I tear through bottles cause I’m a damage fan
|
| And I don’t feel good despite the power of prayer
|
| ‘Cause it’s all waste, yea it’s all wasted what, on a hair do?
|
| Yea it’s all waste, it’s all wasted what, on a drunk boy? |
| In a band boy?
|
| In the ashtray city’s better hot than cold
|
| And if I knew better I’d say I’m feeling old
|
| And if there’s one thing the march of time has told
|
| It’s the sex feels better held in the arms of love
|
| What if my head stops getting
|
| Blood to think
|
| What if her hands stop holding mine
|
| And what if her lips stop touching mine
|
| And what if her eyes stop looking
|
| Out for me
|
| What if her heart stops giving
|
| Itself to me
|
| In the ashtray city where I built my home
|
| And Mum says «son will you come back home»
|
| When I rolled up papers to inflict the drone
|
| And Gus sits by and says «you have to know» |