Lyrics Horrorshow – Dire Straits, Pt. 1
Text:
He wraps a smile ’round his tired face
To hide the marks of the walk of life through dire straits
No brothers in arms
The sultan of mood swing
Moving in tune with the melodies that truth sings
He knows the music will stop
And he’s okay with that, he can face the facts
He just wants it to mean something to these people when he fades to black
And he’s not sure, fighting for a lost cause and effect
He tries to find clarity behind locked doors in his head
And if you saw him, you wouldn’t know it
Hell, his friends don’t
He’s just another lost soul who blocks the world out with his headphones
Words signify nothing, he doesn’t feel your complements
Doesn’t believe the things you say when you try to build his confidence
There is no success, only an inability to realise a goal
This blackjack of all trades playing with the rest, he might just fold
He can see what his opponents hold, read their tactics, call their bluffs
But he can’t play his own hand right, it’s not enough
It’s the way he plays, convinced he’s lost from the first turn
He reads the other players fine from the skirts to the hurt words
The smirks to the T-shirts, the nervous to the certain
Every apple has it’s earthworms
Sorry, he gets carried away when he’s writing in the third person
He knows the music will stop
And he’s okay with that, he can face the facts
He just wants it to mean something to these people when he fades to black
And he’s not sure, fighting for a lost cause and effect
He tries to find clarity behind locked doors in his head
And if you saw him, you wouldn’t know it
Hell, his friends don’t
He’s just another lost soul who blocks the world out with his headphones
Words signify nothing, he doesn’t feel your complements
Doesn’t believe the things you say when you try to build his confidence
There is no success, only an inability to realise a goal
This blackjack of all trades playing with the rest, he might just fold
He can see what his opponents hold, read their tactics, call their bluffs
But he can’t play his own hand right, it’s not enough
It’s the way he plays, convinced he’s lost from the first turn
He reads the other players fine from the skirts to the hurt words
The smirks to the T-shirts, the nervous to the certain
Every apple has it’s earthworms
Sorry, he gets carried away when he’s writing in the third person
