There’s a bloke on the corner with a cigarette grin,

Hawking borrowed dreams while the cracks settle in.

A girl in the queue, jacket held with a pin,

She’s spent all her luck, but she still wants to win.

And you can feel it creeping, that familiar chill,

When the night stands still…

It’s the same old dance, round and round,

Trading secrets for cash, lot to be found.

You try to run, but you can’t get out,

When life’s got its grip on your rain cloud.

There’s a lad at the pub with his head in his hands,

Lost another week to some half-baked plans.

He talks about dreams, how they slip through his fists,

But his pint’s gone warm, and he’s too drunk to resist.

And you can feel it creeping, that familiar chill,

When the night stands still…

They’ll smile and say, “It’s the way of things,”

While tightening the chains on invisible strings.

But what if it broke? What if we tore through?

Would the weight of the lies come falling on you?

It’s the same old dance, round and round,

Trading secrets for cash, lot to be found.

You try to run, but you can’t get out,

When life’s got its grip on your rain cloud.