St. Petersburg

It's my turn It's your turn It's my turn Time to leave Take a bag And pack it neat I've got no future so I'm marching East Corpses in cardboard boxes A mystery to the world It's my turn It's your turn It's my turn Time to leave Take a bag And pack it neat I've got no future so I'm marching East Corpses in cardboard boxes A mystery to the world I don't feel exalted driving Japanese cars And I don't see the value Of losing paths like well-made rafts It's not enough to cling to Something I was driving haunts my recollection And my frozen face It warrents your affection And I hate the fact I always hate the fact I'd like a room in St. Petersburg With rotting walls and character Where I can hide from strangers' eyes And be a mystery to the world And be a mystery to the world