She had a soldier’s face
The body of a dancer
With all the fight drained out of her fine silhouette
What took you from your home
and put you in a playhouse
to single out one face in the crowd from the rest?
There’s no time left
For counting the days to your death
Saving your breath for the last dance of the night
Now I know why it’s called the dying art of romance
I’m in the deep end, drowning again
What a waste
Talk of the masquerade, not of the morning after
Check out the band
It’s a furious sound that they make
There’s no time left
For counting the days till you’re dead
Saving your breath for the last dance of the night
Get your dreams snatched
Everything’s under attack
What good is casting your mind back to it now?
Score them ten out of ten
Every one with a price
We were cheaper than them
We were only along for the ride
I’ll never go hungry
I’ll never be rid of the sound
What good is casting your mind back to it now?
Get your dreams snatched
Everything’s under attack
What good is casting your mind back to it now?
I recently had a drunken conversation with my friend Gavin Best about the ‘excuse tarpaulin’, the veil we draw over our mistakes to avoid getting swallowed up by guilt. This song is the excuse tarpaulin in musical form. Make of that what you will. I think the drums on the end of this track are EPIC.
