| Watching through the dust. | |
| I'm trapped in a theatre of velvet and rust, with lonely shafts of light. | |
| And other ghosts drinking refreshments that's served up by skeletons. | |
| It's the spaces in the dark, where shadows of dead souls dance on the walls. | |
| Where not only were you the star, but you were the bleak soundtrack to my film noir. | |
| Yeah, well that was you. | |
| That was you. Yeah that was you. Mm-mm. That was you. | |
| And what if we just plug-in and go? | |
| And it's my job to be, embittered and constantly proving a mystery. | |
| And although we're dismal in the roles. | |
| I'm scratchy and mono as Bogart and you are a sepia Monroe - | |
| Who's beneath the cobwebs and the chandeliers. | |
| With others who've been dead for years. | |
| Like heroes brought to life again. Like picture shows and Rocket-men. | |
| And the light that fills the room, well it's the flicker from a paper moon. | |
| And when the film is run and through. Well that's when the darkness must win. |
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