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At the end of the week Crammed in commuter trains Stations go by But we don't know their names Our eyes never meet We flip trough catalogues Or gape at our feet To maintain control And there's a beacon in the middle of the town and when the power's out it shows the way back home. The camera shot All the grins and stares But when the pictures appeared There was no-one there I could hear the sound Distant and thin Of our hearts caving in And at the end of the week We'll set things on fire Do you know that thing Just before you fall asleep A sudden shock And the feeling of falling down It's the ghosts of the past that try to sink their talons in and drag you back in to the dark. |
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