White glow of the TV set
Lights dancing on the screen
Voice-overs rise like minarets
Then fall diatonically
Should I answer a friend's distress call
Or should I go to sleep?
Would I like the voices rise and fall
What's it to me?

All those hours of wasted time
Have never crossed my mind
Here I am comfortable
In arm's reach of the black remote
Here I am comfortable
Surrounded by strings and bows
Let everyone else go

Nights on Kirkwood, so serene
Far from the sirens and the screams
I could write or I could read
Go next door and smoke some weed
As long as I don't have to think
About who's running this mess
Or what shit they're writing in the Stone or NME
Go down and make last call
Or sit here and do nothing at all
What's it to me?
All those hours of wasted time
Have never crossed my mind
Here I am comfortable
In arm's reach of the black remote
Here I am comfortable
All those clowns, what can they know?
Let everyone else go