| the rattle in my brain |
| drove me off the dancefloor |
| the tune stayed in my head |
| as they led me to the door |
| and the sky was mighty big |
| but I could still hear them talking |
| a muffled hum vaguely resembling |
| the voice of stephen hawking |
| the gossip of the famous |
| the blessed and the respected |
| the skin that was shown appeared to be known |
| its weakness is detected |
| I can’t quite recall the joke you made then |
| I remember its punch line well |
| I might assume that this is art |
| but who needs wallpapers in hell? |
| look at the crowd |
| the dancefloor never was a prison cell |
| I’ll stay here |
| you can calculate what I might sell |
| if you must |
| you might say in the morning we`ll be dust |
| but for now |
| to every thought there is a tune in alcatraz |
| I had considered all the options |
| consulted all the experts |
| when I stopped by your apartment |
| to see if the light was on |
| and like in the movies when the monster´s behind you |
| my ears could trace a roar |
| I heard my track rolling up your stairs |
| scratching at your door |
| and when the whole street got silent |
| I heard it ring your bell |
| something waited to deliver |
| some long papers from hell |
| to every thought there is a tune for you in alcatraz (2x) |
| if you must |
| you might say in the morning we´ll be dust |
| but for now |
| to every thought there is a tune in alcatraz (3x) |
| if you must |
| you might say in the morning we´ll be dust |