we could sit in here and drink right through the night hear the tales of drugs and alcohol and fights and where the stories go around the car park in the snow but it’s a black and white world to live inside marx was wrong and groucho’s gone (why not) give chance a piece of what’s going on the little white lies and the long white lines only hide the cracks in what we’re standing on we are born and then we become what we are strung between the lines of a guitar and many seem to want what none would surely choose again; the graves of rockers you don’t have to suffer like you do this is the strangest place you’ve been sat in the back of a stretch limousine you drink to ishmael the one that’s left alive a drink is an article of faith to someone with more than one face to show to the world when you cannot sneak it past and you want to have it all, ahead of time there written on each granite slab of stone above the bleaching, brittle bones the numbers don’t add up, there’s none would surely choose again the graves of rockers few things hurt more than being ignored face up in the bath a stupid smile upon your face you only forget why you’d done it all there written on each slab of frozen stone above the bleaching, brittle bones the numbers don’t add up there’s none would surely choose again the graves of rockers