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