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Lloyd Cole
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Mamma I think I might have just met my match I'm lying here in the dirt - a bunch of artifacts Ghost stations coming alive as my pulse weakens And I am not afraid to die Born 1961 just like you, One hundred fifty five thousand metres- neither straight not true Concrete to the left on me, flowers to my right, these were the best of times It was my austere demeanor defined the age Next to me the green world greener and the grey more grey The old man came, said Destroy this symbolism Welcome to my funeral West Berlin You would haved guessed my name by now My chagrin These were the best of times Oh Hansa, my lover Where will your gaze fall now? Combat Groups of the Working Classes Wherefore will you crowd? Western hedonists mourn my passing daily These were the best of times Inanimate I know I am and I will remain Cinderblock souvenirs, sold with candy cane Infiltrating the cabinets of the Western Union With a promise of better times
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