I woke up starving, I went to sleep mad
'cause I met Cassandra, and I gave her all I had
I reached out to her
but she tore away my hands.
My burdens beckon me into abysmal scenes,
but Cassandra's the good guy as far as she can see
- But you can't sell the body parts
on a movie screen.
And Cassandra won't come back for the rest of me.
She waits outside my window to negotiate with my time,
she lays there patiently in the warm summer nights,
but she keeps mistaking me
for someone who has lost his mind.
The deserted city streets have wrapped me in their rains,
i'm lost in Mayfair, and I can't afford the train
the money stole my soul
and then left me be.
And Mayfair won't come back for the rest of me.
So when your candid masters have dwindled to a few,
and you've forgotten how to sing, and how to speak to your friends too,
just lo and behold,
your masters have got a hold on you.
And through my apartment door where the lame sun resides,
where personal post-modern warfare lays upon ruined tides,
you might just my eyes,
or my soul, regretfully,
because my masters won't come back for the rest of me.
I'm burning in water, drowning in flame -
on the dull days the doldrums distort a poet's pain...
...I fellowed sleep
who kissed me in the brain...
I hope to black out if I hold my breath for long,
all the angels are ebbing out of me and the beast is gone -
the madmen is all that's left
and the whiskey makes him strong.
But this just might be the bond to free my insanity,
because the Artist won't come back for the rest of me,
Oh no, the Artist won't come back for the rest of me.
