Well,
I know a man who drinks
His breakfast in an early morning bar.
He lives alone and pays his kids
To keep a healthy distance from his scars.
He likes to claim he feels too much,
And says he cannot live without escape.
“There’s bad news on the way,” he says,
“I don’t want to be here when it breaks.”
He is waiting for the call
Trying not to feel at all.
And when he says goodbye
I see the terror in his eyes.
We feel so weak and small
When we’re waiting for the call.
And I know a pretty girl who is
Addicted to a world of make-believe.
“It’s safe here in my bed,” she says,
“And I beg you not to try to make me leave.”
Sometimes late at night she wakes
With a flicker of the future on her screen.
And she knows she cannot last too long
. . . inside her crazy dreams.
She is waiting for the call
Trying not to watch at all.
Her Maybelline disguise
Hides the terror in her eyes--
She’s a pale and frightened doll
And she’s waiting for the call.
I’m prone to think the modern heart
Is something like a soldier on the lam.
Hiding on the mountain slopes
Where forests of commitment cannot stand.
And someone told me long ago
A lonely tree makes no sound when it falls--
But thunder claps across the sky
When someone hungers for the call.
And we are waiting for the call
Trying not to trip and fall.
And if you pass us by
You’ll see the hope there in our eyes.
We’re a little scared, is all,
As we dance toward the call.
Yeah, we’re a little scared, is all,
As we dance toward the call . . .
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