| All this noise is making me nervous
|
| I feel every slammed door and drunken laugh
|
| Sometimes there’s no room for breathing
|
| Take me to a colony and leave me in Antarctica
|
| The living germs keep these buildings alive
|
| And everyday we feed them with our dirt and rotten memories
|
| The front window in the house his mother left him
|
| Is just another beacon in a sea of dark yellow
|
| This place speaks to him, it’s got it’s own language
|
| Cold comfort through the gill cracked plaster
|
| Looks at him with eyes in paint blisters
|
| Squeezes music through a cheap transistor
|
| Voice of mothers
|
| With their prisoners for brothers
|
| And the bug-eyed little creatures
|
| Terrifying stupid teachers
|
| Who then take it out on weaklings
|
| Spawning killing spree control freaks
|
| Who get married in their prisons
|
| To abused and lonely women
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging
|
| Like I’ve never held on to anything in my life
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging to you
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging
|
| Like I’ve never held on to anything in my life
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging to you
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging
|
| Like I’ve never held on to anything in my life
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging to you
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging
|
| Like I’ve never held on to anything in my life
|
| I’m clean and I’m clinging to you |