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Apart in New York, London and Paris
Where will we rest, we're all living on top of it
It's all that we have the use is our daily bread
And no one is willing to share it

Why can't we see our fortunancy?
Living as legends have lived
Bane and dismembered we coax all the time
Knowing that nothing is left when we die

Come along fool
A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected
It's not that it's bad; it's not that it's dead
It's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're so silent

Wanting to live and laugh all the time
Sitting alone with you tea and your crime
Children with kids, and people with parents
Anywhich way there's no past and no presence
When the day comes and all of them bums
Will reveal enchanting persons

Come along
A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected
It's not that it's bad; it's not that it's dead
It's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're so silent

When it's a rut and baby's no luck
Half of its misunderstanding love
The war we have on we're winning again
Within ourselves and within our friends

Come along
A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected
It's not that it's bad; it's not that it's dead
It's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're so silent