I live on the second floor,
of an old row house down in Baltimore,
Watching all the colors and the shapes,
standing tall up here,
My face against the window,
These moments they can never last,
Like a sad old man with his photographs,
Wishing for the things he cannot change,
Standing tall up here,
My face against the window.
So the architects
and the engineers
Build the monuments
Make the souvenirs
We are occupants
It's a trap this town
We are burning up
We are fading out
We are shooting stars