Are you ready for your daily injektion short straw? I am the ricochet. I am the problem.

You can't brush me under the carpet,
you can't hide me under the stairs,
The custodian of your private fears,
YOU leading actor of yesteryear,

... As you crawled out of the alleys of obscurity,
Sentenced to rejection in the morass of anonymity,
You who ... directed with lovers will,
you who ... hypnotised the lens,
You who I let bathe in the spotlights glare,
You who wiped ME from your memory like a greasepaint mask,

Just like a greasepaint mask.

But now I'm the snake in the grass,
the ghost of filmreels past,
I'm the producer of your nightmare
and the performance has just begun,

It's just begun, it's just begun.

Do you realise? This world is totally fugazi!

Where are the prophets? Where are the visionaries? Where are the poets?

My cue line in the last act and you wait in silent solitude.

Waiting for the prompt.

You've played this scene before.

So if you want my address it's number one at the end of the bar where I sit with the broken angels in a free fire zone clutching at straws and nursing our scars. I am clutching at straws. We are clutching at straws.

Where are the prophets? Where are the visionaries? Where are the poets?

slàinte mhath

Edited by: MikeJack at: 2/28/03 1:52:28 pm