It is the dead of the night

On the dead of the night

I live on a dream, it came to me

When I was young

I brought it here, and now for years

The streets of London keep it safe and warm

Every morning it dies and is reborn

In the dead of the night



I keep a pencil and a book

I say this is how a life can look

Russian roulette, French-kissed cigarette

And the silence like an anvil

The things that you learn, but now all that burns

Is a candle

And the fog melts over the night, and it softens the edges

I begin to write in the dead of the night



A bead of sweat runs down my arm

And I drink it from my skin

It is the most real thing that I feel

It is communion

Bless the meek

Heal the sick

Protect the weak

In the dead of the night