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