| Oh, the light left the room
|
| Deborah, where did it go?
|
| She said that she left home a Yankee with something to sell
|
| But the seas got dry somehow
|
| There’s no such thing as grim weather out here
|
| You don’t have to trust me
|
| I know as I set up my circus tent, one week later
|
| To want to rip it down
|
| She had the highest disease
|
| For which there’s never a cure
|
| At least that’s what she believes
|
| Oh, the ambulance left her
|
| In a heap next to a bar
|
| Like an ordinary citizen tied up in the trunk of a car
|
| Oh, but she don’t moan none
|
| She just gets taller
|
| As the trees find their way down
|
| And the bottom’s the top as I trade in my radio for something smaller
|
| Something I can fit into my pulse
|
| Oh, the highest disease
|
| For which there’s never a cure
|
| At least that’s what she believes
|
| And when the city gets rough
|
| She gets into her balloon
|
| Leaving all the old stuff
|
| Leaving only with
|
| All this useless beauty now
|
| All this useless beauty
|
| Oh, the light left the room
|
| Deborah, where did it go?
|
| She said that she left home a Yankee with something to sell
|
| But the seas got dry somehow
|
| There’s no such thing as grim weather out here
|
| You don’t have to trust me
|
| I know as I set up my circus tent, one week later
|
| To want to rip it down
|
| All this useless beauty now
|
| All this useless beauty |