The city's spread beneath my feet,
but not the one that I was after
while I've been pounding out this beat
the length of the Kudamm.
Street legends on the tourist map,
a fading script in Gothic,
out in the studio they're
rehearsing in drag for a lark.
Come on, let's get lost in the dark.
Tale another step, another move, another pace,
what isn't written in the manuscript is a note to play with grace
and if I exit from this story in a way I might retrace
it will have fallen through the cracks when I come back
in any case
another time's another place.
The city's spread beneath my feet
from the top of the Mercedes tower
and I can see the darkness closing in
hour by hour.
But I can't take another step, no filling in, no cut and paste,
a bankrupt process for the memory, this terrain is laid to waste.
No, nothing's written in the history books
that doesn't leave a nasty taste
