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 our senses and fool ourselves |
| To thinking that out 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, down to deliver us |
| We'll find out that after all, we're only men of straw |
But everything is still the same |
| Passing the time passing 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 ones you never really thought of |
| The feeling you get is similar to something like drowning |
| Out of your mind, you're out of your depth, you should have taken soundings |
| Clutching at straws, we're 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 reflection in our eyes |
| That deep down inside we're all one and the same |
We're clutching at straws |
| We're still drowning |
| Clutching at straws |