| Now that since I’ve found your face
|
| In the most peculiar place
|
| I don’t feel I’ve anything to prove
|
| To anyone else but you
|
| And I think of her
|
| And she thinks of him
|
| And there’s no escaping
|
| This mess that we’re in
|
| But its like she’s holding court
|
| Down each street that we walk
|
| And as she’s drawing all that heat
|
| I feel like the ground beneath her feet
|
| Glance past a skyline of factories
|
| Think of that life that was over to you
|
| Time, time well there’s a funny thing
|
| Written in black on the back of your hand
|
| I still think of her
|
| Do you think of him
|
| And those pills and potions
|
| Work the same time again
|
| And you’re counting all the numbers
|
| In your waterproof purse
|
| And it’s not just a chance I have to stay and crawl along and past
|
| The ground beneath your feet
|
| Do you think of her
|
| 'Cause I think of him
|
| And there’s no escaping
|
| This mess that we’re in
|
| And its like you’re holding court
|
| Down each street that we walk
|
| And as you’re drawing all that heat
|
| I can’t surmise or say
|
| I wonder what price it is I’ll pay
|
| To sweep and move the sand
|
| From the ground beneath your feet
|
| Now that I’ve found your face
|
| In the most peculiar place |