Track 11 of _Clutching at Straws_ ---



Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors

a typewriter cackles out a stream of memories



Drying out a conscience, evicting a nightmare

Opening the doors for the dreams to come home



We live out lives in private shells

ignore out senses and foor ourselve

into thinking that our there there's someone else cares

someone to answer all our prayers...



Are we too far gone, are we so irresponsible

Have we lost our balls, or do we just not care

We're terminal cases that keep talking medicine

Pretending the end isn't quite that near

We make futile gestures, act to the cameras

With our made up faces and PR smiles

and when the angel comes down to deliver us

we'll find out after all, we're only men of straw



But everything is still the same

passing the time passing out the blame

we carry on in the same old way

we'll find out we left it too late one day

to say what we meant to say



Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the water

those problems seem to arise the one you never really thought of

The feeling you get is similar to some sort of drowning

when you are out of your mindd, out of your depth,

you sound have taken soundings

We're clutching at straws, we're clutching at straws clutching at straws



And if you ever come across us don't give us your sympathy

You can buy us a drink and just shake our hands

and you'll recognise by the reflections in our eyes

that deep down inside we're all one and the same

We're clutching at straws still drowning



(Greyhound Tour Bus, North America) [FISH and DEREK WILLIAM DICK