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Late at night, when reality's failed and nothing is prevailing but the wind, I come to you.
Out of sight, like a fugitive trailing across a barren land, you let me in, you always do.
My reason is caught by a sudden gust of lateral thought that sweeps me far beyond, it's the opium of the night.
And the ocean of words that we throw in the air grows more absurd and nobody seems to care, it's a refugee's respite. Cafe Society.
Late at night, while the city lies sleeping and solitude is keeping me awake, I think of you.
Dim your lights, oh, I want to sink deep in that river of oblivion you make, I need it, too.
Let me check-in my mind with my coat at the door, 'cause I want to go flying where I've never been before, some inviting [some 3-syllable thing that ryhmes with "ravine"].
If the hand that you hold in the dead of the night is a little too cold, the body seems just right, it's a [some 5-syllable thing that also rhymes with "ravine"]. Cafe Society.
8. 1-2-3
[Sound of footsteps walking along a street. A pause, the footsteps take two steps up a short flight of stairs. Five knocks, a door opens, a coctail party is heard in the background, and a semi-snobbish voice says, "Excuse me, sir, are you a member?"]
One, two, three. That's how elementary it's gonna be. Just fine and dandy, it's easy, like taking candy from a baby.
>From the poor country, when you bought a rose, you paid them with beads, tipped the general, it's easy, like taking candy from a baby.
The hard part is learning about it, the hard part is breaking through to the truth. The hard part is learning to doubt what you read, what you hear, what you see on the news.
Foriegn policy, made above my head, well, no one asked me. They just laughed and said it's easy, like taking candy from a baby. It's easy, like taking candy from a baby.
Once they get you sucked into the system, once they get you under control, the hard part is knowing how to resist the grip that they keep on your mind and your soul.
So in the end, we just compromise, and pretend. If you close your eyes, it's easy, like taking candy from a baby.
9. The Candidate
Inside the lonely building sits the candidate. His speech is typed and ready, the hundred-dollar plates sit on deserted tables, beneath flourescent lights. But no one comes to hear him, no cheers disturb the night. So where are all the voters? Where the voter's wives? They've all gone to the movies trying to understand their lives. The candidate is slipping into some dream of old, not noticing around him a thousand rubber chickens going cold.
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