typing letters to the dead
late at night on a closed piano lid
she circles past, she fills your glass
but she doesn't recognise the song
once in a lifetime she says
the waking life stitched together in your head
well, what if it's only worth
the bundle of nerves it's written on?
and i don't need these arms anymore
i don't need this heart now, to love
i don't need this skin and bone at all
there's a way you've alwys known her
telephone between her cheek and her shoulder
and eyes like crystal balls
that just won't shut up about the future of the future
and ramona was a waitress
all but made of information
in a bar under the third bridge
she says she's looking forward to living forever
when i won't need these arms anymore
when i won't need this heart now to love
and i won't need this skin and bone at all
at all...
and ramona was a waitress...
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