Nausea

There’s some mornings I wake up I realize I made it all up The drama, the stage, the curtain The actors and their scripted burden And somewhere in the dark theater, We’re lit by a sudden flashing And all that history will recover Are the pistols of assassins The pistols of assassins There’s some moments I break free The constraints of my perspective On an ocean one cannot see, One mustn’t try to be too objective But somewhere beyond the parting waves, I see a wreck on a heap of sand Overgrown with tropical flowers And wouldn’t you know Wouldn’t you know Wouldn’t you know That I recognize that man! There’s some evenings I go down To the Bouville Cafe But I can’t touch my espresso And the room begins to sway And somewhere within the din of the throngs, I come to wonder what is wrong Then melting away is every facade And all that lingers is a jukebox song Called “Nausea” That’s the echo of a jukebox song Called “Nausea”