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The little clock's stopped ticking now |
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We're swallowed in the stomached rue |
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The only sound to tear the night |
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Comes from the man upstairs |
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His bloated belching figure stomps |
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He may crash through the ceiling soon |
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The window sees trees cry from cold |
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And claw the moon |
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But we know don't we |
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And we'll dream won't we |
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Of Montague Terrace in blue |
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The girl across the hall makes love |
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Her thoughts lay cold like shattered stone |
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Her thighs are full of tales to tell |
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Of all the nights she's known |
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Your eyes ignite like cold blue fire |
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The scent of secrets everywhere |
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A fist filled with illusions |
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Clutches all our cares |
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But we know don't we |
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And we'll dream won't we |
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Of Montague Terrace in blue oh in blue |
