Manheim; rainy Saturday with no money nor friend,

only Tequila can end the boredom.

Try to reach London for a pocket of hope;

we're children, we grope in the dark.

Hugh spends his last Mark on coffee and cheese...

I feel just like a refugee...

Rathaus-keepers and traffic police,

middle-aged maids with rotting teeth

industrial magazines and old Sunday Times;

reading material/bleeding lines.

What are we doing here?



Memorial manace, eager for revenge,

has begun to bend our minds.

Shower-curtain imperative in the presence of acid;

now, feeling placid is death.

I try to hold my breath as the P.A. comes down...

here we all are in Ktown!

The Big Wheel never fails to grind around;

it drags me up/drags me down

Seven sentenses wonder 'Can this be real,

or am I become a performing seal?'

Why are we dying here?



I walk the streets alone, try to find a sign of love,

I've crushed the plaster-bone in the freaky clubs,

I have bit the fruit

but all I live for is to play

and I'm tired of the nights and the days

of airports, taxis and motorway showers,

grooping for a key in the afterhours.

David takes to travelling in the van,

He knows that we all can understand;

we're at the mercy of the Kosmos Tour,

making a pilgrimage to the German Lourdes...

but we're still crippled here.



Cathedrals spiral skywards, I think I'm getting vertigo,

I think I don't know what is real.

On a more sudden spotlight, one more madness is over...

I must not show a sign of fear.

Words echo round my ears, I think I'm going to laugh...

think I'll just go and take a bath, Guess I'll wash my clothes,

don't you know I'll grow to go and make my name,

maybe a servant in the Fame game;

stake my sane and rest my life on the line...

Now lay me asunder and rend my mind;

at the fall of the curtain let this be my ghost