When it's 4:30 in the morning And the vacuum sucks you in The tell tale trace of guilt upon your face The sidewalk feels just like your skin When your heart is full of winter And your days become like living in a lie And the clouds outside your bedroom windowpane Resemble crippled children limping slowly 'cross the sky When you grasp at straws like forgotten songs And your memory's short but the days are too long Every dream that you bought seems to slip right through your hands Well, love has got disorders And work has got demands
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down
And when the sun is pounding on the pavement And the streets are dripping sex And murder gets to sounding like a kind of inner peace And everybody wants to know what's going to happen next Well, I won't give away the end my little troubadour Though I've been here before and I can't bear to watch the rest But don't you blink Don't close your eyes or it will pass you by The weight of history is hanging on your chest
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down
Well, your problem's sticking with you Just like flies up on a strip you crawl inside your head But it ain't worth the trip You rearrange the furniture But it always looks the same Christ on a crutch [too late, too much] call it a day
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down Could be you're going down...
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Copy to Clipboard: When it's 4:30 in the morning And the vacuum sucks you in The tell tale trace of guilt upon your face The sidewalk feels just like your skin When your heart is full of winter And your days become like living in a lie And the clouds outside your bedroom windowpane Resemble crippled children limping slowly 'cross the sky When you grasp at straws like forgotten songs And your memory's short but the days are too long Every dream that you bought seems to slip right through your hands Well, love has got disorders And work has got demands
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down
And when the sun is pounding on the pavement And the streets are dripping sex And murder gets to sounding like a kind of inner peace And everybody wants to know what's going to happen next Well, I won't give away the end my little troubadour Though I've been here before and I can't bear to watch the rest But don't you blink Don't close your eyes or it will pass you by The weight of history is hanging on your chest
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down
Well, your problem's sticking with you Just like flies up on a strip you crawl inside your head But it ain't worth the trip You rearrange the furniture But it always looks the same Christ on a crutch [too late, too much] call it a day
Don't say a word Don't make a sound Just might be going down Could be you're going down...
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