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
Copses and cardboard boxes
A mystery to the world

I don't feel exotic driving Japanese cars
And I don't see the value
Of roofs and paths like well-made graphs
It's not enough to cling to

Sandy polystyrene haunts my recollection
Of a frozen face that wanted your affection
And I hid the fact
I always hid the fact

I'd like a room in St. Petersburg
With rotting walls and character
Where I can hide and stay inside
And be a mystery to the world