Oh, Jesus...
Had nothing to do with this really
Even less than some would like to think
Up around the third floor back
And back up in the fucking ink
The pulse goes slow, the lights glow lower
And I stagger in the stairwell stinking
Coffin style and styling
No man is an island?
Like hell, I was thinking
The stairs, the chairs, the tables and the food
It's picture postcard perfect
And it cloys just like castor oil
Jesus... Jesus...
Had nothing to do with this really
Even more than some would like to think
Up around my bitter floor flat
And crooked
Right back into the ink
And the pulse goes slow
And the lights glow lower
And I stagger in the stairwell stinking
Coffin style and styling
No man is an island?
Like hell, I was thinking
The stairs
The chairs
The tables and the food
The pulse goes slow
The lights glow lower
And I stagger in the stairwell stinking
Coffin style and styling
I'm deeply ashamed of it all
It's picture
The postcard
The perfect
And it cloys just like castor oil
And the lights glow lower
And I stagger in the stairwell
And the pulse goes slow
And the lights glow
And I stagger in the stairwell stinking
No man is an island?
Like hell, I was thinking
Like hell, I was thinking
