Carry Me
What a letdown
I was convinced that I'd be living in hotels and breaking into houses by now.
I was under the impression that I'd be partying in Rio on yachts with my white suit on
And soft-permed women in chiffon and lycra.
When I was 6 I blew out all the candles but the machine gun and motor bike have yet to appear.
Every day I check for my super power or special ability, but it's still in the post.
I know it is.
And every day I try to use the force, and the belief that I can fly will never leave.
I must be an undercover spy, disguised as "my life".
I must be.
Just a little bit longer and then I can go home and reap the rewards.
It must be so obvious though. Surely I can't be that good at my job as this all looks fake and wrong and cheap and shallow.
Or maybe I'm too good?
Anyway, not long now and then it's back to the real life
Of the yachts and the night stars
And summer youth longing romance.
Hey, I'm sorry you're dead
And I'm sorry that I missed Bowie's changes.
I stumbled upon him dancing with his red shoes on
And dismissed him as a cunt.
Dancing to thought forms made true when he turned the world from black and white.
Let me sing about the hell you're in
So it'll take me out of my life
Let me shout of bonds and walls and thorns
I can kick you while I'm down
I'll have to paint the most horrendous colours
To cover up my favourite chord
Knowing my luck I'll be the first not to die
My own striving for perfection and goodness flanks me
And laughs at the failure that I am from his dizzy heights
I'll never make it up there to become the real me.
Everything's wrong
And it keeps getting worse
You said it's just a product of aging
But that's not true
It's really all getting worse.
I was convinced that I'd be living in hotels and breaking into houses by now.
I was under the impression that I'd be partying in Rio on yachts with my white suit on
And soft-permed women in chiffon and lycra.
When I was 6 I blew out all the candles but the machine gun and motor bike have yet to appear.
Every day I check for my super power or special ability, but it's still in the post.
I know it is.
And every day I try to use the force, and the belief that I can fly will never leave.
I must be an undercover spy, disguised as "my life".
I must be.
Just a little bit longer and then I can go home and reap the rewards.
It must be so obvious though. Surely I can't be that good at my job as this all looks fake and wrong and cheap and shallow.
Or maybe I'm too good?
Anyway, not long now and then it's back to the real life
Of the yachts and the night stars
And summer youth longing romance.
Hey, I'm sorry you're dead
And I'm sorry that I missed Bowie's changes.
I stumbled upon him dancing with his red shoes on
And dismissed him as a cunt.
Dancing to thought forms made true when he turned the world from black and white.
Let me sing about the hell you're in
So it'll take me out of my life
Let me shout of bonds and walls and thorns
I can kick you while I'm down
I'll have to paint the most horrendous colours
To cover up my favourite chord
Knowing my luck I'll be the first not to die
My own striving for perfection and goodness flanks me
And laughs at the failure that I am from his dizzy heights
I'll never make it up there to become the real me.
Everything's wrong
And it keeps getting worse
You said it's just a product of aging
But that's not true
It's really all getting worse.
Credits
Writer(s): Malcolm Bruce Middleton
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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