[it was too good to last he thoughtnmight as well have been a dream he thought]nnlights are out,nphones are dead,nand I'm the only thing thats running in this city.nexcept for the clouds,nand they're coming down.nif I knew my way aroundnI wouldn't feel so dizz-ay.nnwhere's telly?nnobody can tell menI don't speak a lick of that language nand got a slippery memorynif I spelled it all out on my armnonly ifnbut I didn't nso I think get a grip kidndeal with itnnbaby's waiting for a ringnwon't settle for the substitute excuse that's formingnI got a complicated case of escapismnfor her I try to rewire my naturento tired to wake her upnnout of that artificial calm she was onna drug induced future that slipped out of her palmsnseductive rain dancernshe thinks I'm water proofnlike superman doesn't need a roof over his headnnwhen I come home to roostnI need truth of holy mennbut I'm seeking salvation in a boothnthe phones are deadnand the lights are outnand I'm the only thing living in this ghost townnexcept for the cloudsnand then they're coming downnif I knew my way around by now I'd rebound for homennblack out on white night in romenblack out on white night in romennI know that I'm in lovenbut I know I'm out of touchnand I know that I get dumb when I can sense something's upnand then I bottom outneuropean tale spinsnscrawling messages out on my pale skinnin hopes they get mailed innnbefore the ink poisoning takes affectnand gets smugged because I bugged before I let paint setnI get jugded by the ones who have shelter and rain checksnwhile I trugged through the mudnbecause this foreign terrain's wetnnregain conciousness and lose common sensenthe ominious dark skies that lie between me and providence are signsnthe obivous answer isn't standing on your face with stilletos onnif you pop the question wrongnnevery song is a post after thought nI won't grab the chalk to outline my body of workntoe tags get caught in my teethn'cause my foot is in my mouthnand the spurs are in the wordsnso my tounge can't dismountnneven after our rapport had fully run it's coursencouldn't figure out the most heroic time to jump from the horsenand place this old hat for the last time on a coat racknbut I'd donate all my earnings from this race to know thatnnresisting urges to go back and get it laternlike the milk wouldn't sour itself in the refridgeratorna wet boy in a dry dry statenon a old country roadnwhere tradition has a blind datennI make it dance on it's own grave tonightnwith a change of direction by the pale moonlightnand if it needs theme musicni'll break out the bagpipesnand play a tune that a ghost wrote me in a past life that goes likennblack out on white night in rome