We're always killing time,
The week's a graveyard of the mind.
Live a dead life of a kind,
Following the pointless biro line
Across the border of Nowhere Town,
Where all the signs say turn yourself around.
The storm's not gathering.
Nothing goes to nowhere every time.
Another week on the graveyard shift.
Put the empty spinning plates in line.
We cross the border of Nowhere Town
And turn the signs to nowhere back around.
Stephen my friend,
There's time for smokes and drinks,
More jokes more time to think
Of the quip, the perfect rhyme,
The word, the song, the punch, the line.
The storm's not gathering.
Nothing goes to nowhere every time.
Another week on the graveyard shift.
Put the empty spinning plates in line.
Across the border chasing Friday down,
We turn the signs to nowhere back around.
Stephen my friend...
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