| Typing letters to the dead |
| Late at night on a closed piano lid |
| She circles past, she fills your glass |
| But she doesn’t recognise the song |
| Once in a lifetime she says |
| The waking life stitched together in your head |
| Well, what if it’s only worth |
| The bundle of nerves it’s written on? |
| And i don’t need these arms anymore |
| I don’t need this heart now, to love |
| I don’t need this skin and bone at all |
| There’s a way you’ve alwys known her |
| Telephone between her cheek and her shoulder |
| And eyes like crystal balls |
| That just won’t shut up about the future of the future |
| And ramona was a waitress |
| All but made of information |
| In a bar under the third bridge |
| She says she’s looking forward to living forever |
| When i won’t need these arms anymore |
| When i won’t need this heart now to love |
| And i won’t need this skin and bone at all |
| At all… |
| And ramona was a waitress… |