In your blue room sit with a candle lit
On a charcoal bed of dreams you carry on
Though the streets are hot you can still a lot
But you can walk out and forget there isn't time to take a loan
But you're now into something that you were immune to before
And there wasn't a sign you just fell into line at the door
And the question sands in the palms of hands
Of the wretches picking pieces of their minds up off the floor
On the mantel place there is still a trace