Lost

Picture this: two thirty on the hottest night in June

He awaits for no reason and checks his watch by the moon

And his mouth feels as dry as his eyes as he struggles to rise

And stops to contemplate his (wife's?) eyes as he does up his flies

He finds his slippers where he left them under the chair

Behind the two cups and an old copy of Marie Claire

And he switches on the coffee machine that, of course, works like a dream

Catches sight of his reflection in the silver surface sheen

And it's a face he knows well, although it should look less abused,

With all these moisturisers and the skin products he used

As he moves through the kitchen his homage to brush steel,

Across the new pine flooring that's plastic but looks real

Past the plasma with the wide screen and cinema surround sound

And he stops at his favourite spot by the window and looks down

On the orange lit street at the edge of the private car park

Where his Audi TT is waiting safely in the dark (safely in the dark)

Keeping it all inside of you (inside of you)

Something will have to give

And if you could, you'll take it back

But you lose your way in the way you live

Now he can hear windchimes tinkling out on the balcony

And his phone beeping out a text message in the same key

He checks it and it's Jill who used to be his secretary

Before they started an affair and things began to get really scary

Now his wife Mary's getting wary of his lies

Like she's read the whole sordid story in his eyes

It doesn't help that Jill's now saying that she's two weeks late,

His mental state is really starting to deteriorate

He never knew how he got so out of his depth

Or why he's broken more than all these promises kept

And it's been ages since he's slept properly

His sleep's now broken by these dreams of extra marital activity

Trying to recapture the rapture he used to get

From his material possessions and endless retail therapy sessions

Should have listened to what his dad said before he died

"The best things in life are the ones you can't buy, son"

Keeping it all inside of you (inside of you)

Something will have to give

Wish you could buy a ticket back (a ticket back)

But you lose your way in the way you live

He used to feel so safe up here in his shrine to Ikea

Away from the shouts and the louts, and the girls with the overpainted pouts

And the queers and the dykes and the kids in their box-fresh Nike's

Delivering rocks to the house across the street on rusty mountain bikes

He used to feel so safe up here in his shrine to Ikea

Away from the shouts and the louts, and the girls with the overpainted pouts

And the queers and the dykes and the kids in their box-fresh Nike's

Delivering rocks to the house across the street on rusty mountain bikes