im sittin’ on the tenth floor of a chicago hotel
the gigs over ages ago
the applause dies down n fades
the people drift away
its raining
the hotel is quite horrible n sleazy
cars beep n bonk in the street
i feel sick
i feel empty
jus’ nothin’
i look in the mirror
a freckly familiar face
thin damp hair stickin’ out
those piercing eyes im so tired of lookin’ back at me
darling muse where are you now?
im alwayshere steven at your fingertips
muse why do i feel like this
steven, you drank a loada booze
you ate no dinner
you did no yoga
you drove 7 hours
you ran around for 2 hours in the hotspotlite
carrying a heavy plank o’ wood
you screamed out ya songs
you got hot n sweaty n giddy n silly
muse i feel a bit awkward now
muse i feel like i want my payoff
i want more than this orrible rheum
n this ringin’ ears
n this sore throat
n this lonesome fuckin’ feelin’
yeah yeah
ok i know im going home on monday
but right now
but right now
all i have muse is you
and youre just no one n nobody either
the rain streaks the dirty window
chicago street lights blur n distort
a fog comes down (over the marine city)
almost 3 in the morning
ha!
big song n dance man
a regular entertainer
w/ show biz in yer blood
rockn roll
so deep inna night it leaves ya stranded high n dry
i feel mortal
i feel olde
i feel vulnerable
dont rush to reassure me
in fact i forbid it
let me hurt n just read it
no advice please
itll be too late by then
if yer really my friends
then lemme cry on yer shoulders
but dont say nothin’
this is the empty side of showbiz
that you gonna get to see
the hollow parts
the bit that accounts fer all that drinkin’ n druggin’
n the crack ups n the suicides n the late nite swims in rivers
miles from home
lonely
tired but not sleepy
hungry but no appetite
disappointed with some intangible….
drums still bang bang bang in me head
noises of fighting and/or fucking coming from other rooms
you think i got it made?
wheres the glamour, baby….
and yet
its damn well under my skin
n just like a drug im hooked on it
and i wanna travel n play
and be a teenager till im fuckin’ sixty
grandad rock!
or what else muse
what else is there to do
get on the pension
be a postman
(i wouldnt mind that actually
put all the mail in the wrong boxes
shake it up a little)
anyway
i think i feel sweet brother sleep approaching
waltzing thru the chicago sky
n into my room
the traffic has almost died away
the occaisional cab hissing thru the puddles
everyone else is at a bar
bars dont work for me
poisonous noisy fuckin’ establishments
chattin’ up some boiler
or some turkey screamin in yer ear bout the footy
but good luck to em
jus’ what they all need
more booze
for their blues
n all the things
which turned us
in to
what we are