The mascara'd blonde from the Berliner bar |
| Rises at twilight, gets dressed in a daze |
| Black leather crackles and cold water runs |
| As she touches the walls of memory maze |
And the shadows of men she has known fill her day |
| She's held half the world in her arms so they say |
| But she wakes up without them with a hole in her heart |
| And she puts on her clothes lives her life behind bars |
The mascara'd blonde from the Berliner bar |
| Sighs at the skylight gets lost in the haze |
| Black leather crackles and cold water runs |
| As she touches the walls of her memory maze |
Someone got stranded in no man's land |
| Dancing in the spotlight to the sound of clapping hands |
| Nobody knows who's side he was on |
| It's a risk that you take in no man's land |
| Nobody knows what made him decide |
| To run for freedom and to certain suicide |
| When they turn off the guns and his fingers uncurl |
| He's clutching a photograph of a Berlin party girl |
Come in from your checkpoints on your lonely roads |
| Come in from your ditches in your silent fields |
| Where intensified light from a rifle sight |
| Makes the darkness day |
| And the day too bright, |
And we wake up without you |
| We wake up without you |
| With a hole in our hearts |
You mad dog shaven head bottle-boy freaks |
| In Martens and khaki, drunk on sake |
| You stare at yourself in the cruel flush of dawn |
| Terrified, sunken eyed, withered and drawn |
| The butcher, the baker, the munitions maker |
| The over-achiever, the armistice breaker |
| The freebase instructor, the lightning conductor |
| The psycho, the sailor, the tanker, the tailor |
| The black market mailer |
| The quick and the dead |
| The spotlight dancer |
| The quick and the dead |
| We wake up without you |
| With a hole in our hearts |
The mascara'd blonde from the Berliner bar |
| Rises at twilight, gets dressed in a daze |