Like the skin of a dying man
Night after night, we pretend it's all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel, cold as a razors blade
Tight as an tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum,
Rain in the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left
You'll find my favourite axe
Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase
One of my bad days
Would you like to watch TV?
Or get between the sheets?
Or comtemplate the silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops?
Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away