Happy Hour - Peter Hammill

Fuelled by alcohol
Shooting out words like a rocket
Like a prophet out of babylon
Method acting the absurd
Shoot me those highballs
Till I'm lit up like I'm plugged in a socket
Lock me eyeball to eyeball
Let's not bother with the words
Oh bring on the clowns bring on the night
Pour me double vision in black and white
I'm falling falling don't give me that look
I'm falling falling it's the oldest trick in the book
My chickadee my passion flower
Show me the way to the happy hour
I don't like to see that：
Oh no I don't like the way the hand is shaking
Shape making like an acrobat
On his way to the trapeze
My friends in the crowd
Are all taking bets
They're taking away the safety net
Falling falling don't give me that look
I'm falling only falling it's the oldest trick in the book
Vertigo on the high wire tower
Is this really what they mean by "happy hour"
The line between the social and the suicidal
So fine he might not know when he's crossed it
When he's lost it
When the social kick becomes the gauging stick of survival
So here's to the circus
Let's drink to the game of forgetting
The marionette strings that jerk us
The real world just outside the door
I know that my legs have gone
And I know that the light here is far from perfect
But I've rehearsed it so I'll carry on
Until I wind up on the floor
My friends in the bar
Will stand me a round
They'll toast me on my way to the underground
I'm falling falling don't give me that look
I'm falling only falling it's the oldest trick in the book
My chickadee my passion flower
Show me the way to the happy hour
Vertigo on the high wire tower
Is this really what they mean by "happy hour"
Put on the greasepaint we're getting ready for Happy Hour
Do you hear me now Can you feel me now
I'm in the middle of Happy Hour
Put on the greasepaint