Fugue

Miss the last train home, yeah we’ll talk it out.
Sit down by the phone, maybe shout it out.
It’s ashame, that the flesh on our bones,
Is the last thing we have left to call home.

Shoo the flame from the wick, yeah wax it out.
Crack the crown from my skull, axe it out.
It’s ashame, the shape of our hands,
Broken and bruised, silently feigned.

Yeah, we’re stuck in a fugue
That might never recap.
Oh yeah, we’ve broken a few,
Words, we’ll never use.

So miss the last train home, we’ll talk it out.
Get drunk alone, and flesh it out.
It’s ashame, the flesh on our bones
Is rotting too fast to make it home.

Yeah, we’re stuck in a fugue
That might never recap.
Oh yeah, we’ve entered the flumes,
We might never get back.