--- 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]
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