Fuelled by alcohol
Shooting out words like a rocket
Like a prophet out of Babylon
Method acting the absurd...
Shoot me those highballs
Till I'm lit up like I'm plugged in a socket;
Lock me eyeball to eyeball
Let's not bother with the words
Oh, bring on the clowns, bring on the night
Pour me double vision in black and white
I'm falling, falling – don't give me that look!
I'm falling, falling, it's the oldest trick in the book
My chickadee, my pa**ion flower
Show me the way to the Happy Hour
I don't like to see that:
Oh, no, I don't like the way the hand is shaking
Shape-making like an acrobat
On his way to the trapeze
My friends in the crowd
Are all taking bets –
They're taking away the safety net
Falling, falling – don't give me that look!
I'm falling, only falling, it's the oldest trick in the book
Vertigo on the high-wire tower –
Is this really what they mean by "Happy Hour"?
The line between the social and the suicidal
So fine he might not know when he's crossed it
When he's lost it;
When the social kick becomes the gauging-stick of survival
So here's to the circus
Let's drink to the game of forgetting
The marionette strings that jerk us
The real world just outside the door
I know that my legs have gone
And I know that the light here is far from perfect...
But I've rehearsed it, so I'll carry on
Until I wind up on the floor
My friends in the bar
Will stand me a round
They'll toast me on my way to the underground
I'm falling, falling – don't give me that look!
I'm falling, only falling, it's the oldest trick in the book
My chickadee, my pa**ion flower
Show me the way to the Happy Hour
Vertigo on the high-wire tower –
Is this really what they mean by "Happy Hour"?
Put on the greasepaint, we're getting ready for Happy Hour
Do you hear me now? Can you feel me now?
I'm in the middle of Happy Hour...
Put on the greasepaint
[repeat to fade]