He likes to have the morning paper's crossword solved
Words go up words come down, forwards, backwards twisted round
He grabs a pile of letters from a small suit case
Disappers into an office its another working day
Chorus 1:
And his thoughts are full of strangers, corridors of naked lights
And his mind once full of reason, Now there' more than meets the eye
Now a strangers face he carries with him
Verse 2:
and at heart he's full of strangers, dodging on his train of thought