Prospects

A train ride to Tuesday A platform far away Scarlet shades of evening Move clouds of grey Awaking arriving The dirty station where He passes crowds of people Who don't see him there Here's a desert island room For a man who's cast away Stranded in this home from home From his family far away Home, well this is it This is it, is this my heart? I miss you with all my heart This is not, is this not my home? One shoelace, cardboard suitcase One passport from the Queen One room for a light bulb Where no one's been Sticks and stones, my old bones Not like 1954 Then they liked me fine But not anymore This empty room Where he's marooned With nothing left to say But in the dark He thinks of home far away Home, well this is it This is it, is this my heart? I miss you with all my heart This is not, is this not my home? I feel cold getting old More than the climate's change Stranded on this island The rate of exchange Here's a desert island room For a man who's cast-away Today he will not be at work There is no work anyway How is it when you feel it? Do you wonder what gets you down? You're looking in the windows When you walk this town --- Prospects - Madness