These are just ghosts
There’s something tacky, in the air tonight.
Thank you Mr. Collins.
The left over scraps of musical maps,
Defacing the late-night city walls.
Crying the pies on a motorway bridge,
Will never answer the question,
I remain attached to the last photographs,
Of the lovers who drove past the gate.
Each has a song, can do me no wrong,
Vandalising my mind with their names.
And crying out words, when I can’t hear a voice,
Will never change my mind.
The smoky back bedroom, in somebody’s flat,
Is never ever a home.
Surrounded by blues, yesterdays news,
Further removed and alone.
So taking up smoking, anything you can smoke,
Will only be cause for alarm.
There’s something awry, in the fashionable ways,
Of the singers and songers still living.
Taking offence, their only defence?
Plastic fabrications, never creations,
Will always fail, I hope.
There’s something not right, in the air tonight,
Blame the smoking city?
Drenched in melody, floating in harmony,
Welcome, welcome home.
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