We run into a dark room, and we spasm to the sounds of a copy Morrissey.
Or the blues of the deep south.
And the drugs will only hide it.
The feeling never really goes.
You won't find love at the bottom, of a class C hole.
And you don't know what you've got until it's gone
And you don't know who to love until you're lost
And you don't know how to feel until the moment's passed
I wish you'd live like you're made of glass.
We've got work in the morning but it's nearly 5 am
Is this really what we envisaged?
We won't be 21 again.