| Lost sight of ground, never been so down
|
| Nothing here to stand on
|
| It’s a war-weary road another faceless tombstone
|
| Nothing here to stand on
|
| Turn to face the wind may never get out
|
| Forever caught in a spin, no better place to begin
|
| Can’t find the phone, can’t hear to listen
|
| Can’t take along what we’re missing
|
| Just as well to write this postcard from Helland
|
| The bar clock says three a. |
| m
|
| Fallout shelter sign above the door
|
| In other words, don’t come here anymore
|
| Too many miles between I heard a dead man scream
|
| Nothing here to stand on
|
| Each and every step reeling out more or less
|
| Nothing here to stand on
|
| I turn to face the wind may never get out
|
| Forever caught in a spin no better place to begin
|
| I turn to face the wind may never get out
|
| Forever caught in a spin no better place to begin
|
| Tried to stay, tried to run
|
| There’s never been enough reason to believe in anyone
|
| This trickle-down theory has left all these pockets empty
|
| And the bar clock says three a.m.
|
| Fallout shelter sign above the door
|
| In other words, don’t come here anymore |