its like when youve been home for days
and the only thing you feel like is peeling
the paint on old sandstone walls and press
yr cheek on the cold microscopic duststars
its like when youve been wondering what the voice
of pain is like and you walk thru the night market
at 2 a.m. and the only thing you can feel is the splash
of yr handmade rubber soul on the wet asphalt
its like when you feel like ramen and the only way
you can get it is by climbing 26 floors of stairs
into a revolving karaoke booth in the skull
of this city the city you love and hate in nothing measure
its like when you ask yrself whats lost in loves labour
lost and you go to an opium den and ask for heroin
in yr dreams everything makes sense even the way
she paints her eyebrows with a chocolate stick
its like when along rue mouffetard get yrself
an ice cream two scoops at jeffs and save yrself
for dinner for one on the steps of the panthéon feel
really feel the waft of clove cigarette smoke on yr face
its like when youve been home for days its like when
youve been home for days its like when youve been home
for days on end and you think why when youve been home
for days on end and you think why mon dieu am i happy no
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