The Russian

I keep a box of filter tips in the pocket of my coat
A half moon on my hip, the rest is racked and rolled
I don’t need to figure out if I’m blessed or I'm cursed
There is darkness in the centre, death upon the verge

When I’m standing on the soap box, out in the city square
When the sirens they are screaming, tearing up the air
When I’m flying, I’m flying, I’m flying, to get out to the top
I take a paper thin existence and watch it burn

Therе’s an inch of crimson thread, sewn into my skin
A remindеr of the truth, the hollow I am in

When I’m standing on the soap box, out in the city square
When the sirens they are screaming
Screaming, tearing through the air
When I’m flying, I’m flying, I’m flying, tracing out my time
I take a paper thin existence and watch it burn

When I’m standing on the soap box, out in the city square
When the sirens they are screaming
The sirens, tearing through the air
When I’m flying, I’m flying, I’m flying, tracing out my time
I take a paper thin existence and let it burn