Recession — a perfect fit,
Makes no difference where he sits,
Not since they cut the ties,
Put some sadness in his eye.
Promises — come and go,
Soak the sun in drifts of snow,
A qualified butt-collector,
Working for the private sector.
He’s seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
They took the plans from up my sleeve,
By an architect, on New Years Eve,
There it goes, a new bronze tower,
Washed away with an April shower.
He’s seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
But, when you’ve gone,
I’m still here, the only one,
My eyes and my ears,
Will be here ’til I’m gone;
And it’s still the perfect place,
To rest a tired and weary face,
And it’s still the perfect place,
To lose your soul with a trace.
A lived-in face, with a root,
of matted hair, a smiling tooth,
A dirty hand, a pixies nose,
Scratches underneath his clothes.
He’s seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
He’s seen them go,
Without a trace,
This must be it …