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.