Inverigo

We are late like a midnight train that's running nowhere

We are sticks we are stones we are broken bones we are hot air

We are under the guillotine trying to fix our hair

There's computers clicking binary genius into the night

There are formulas, remedies, reasons, there is hindsight

There's the smell of artillery, There's the sky alight

We are bedrock we're undergound we are sharp as the rain

We are gathering pace we are thunder wrapped in cellophane

We are running from the storms of our youth into more of the same

There's a motorway service station on a January day

There's a lunchtime radio show there's the shit that they play

There's the percussion of buttons and keys in a cybercafe

We are some distant TV channel a lesson grown old

We are rhythm and rhyme, partners in crime we are fools gold

We are free as the wind through the trees or so we are told

There's some faded out manuscript paper and an old clarinet

There is cash on the table there's a tapestry alphabet

There's the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet

There's the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet