Found you outside on the platform, you'd been crying for all the truths and all the lying and all the miles away from home you were.
And the ticket inspector here he doesn't recognise me, he's remembered every face he's seen since 1963.
Well fine, fuck it, I don't care, I don't care anymore. Anyway it's not like anyone here is keeping a score between me and the German fucking rail staff.
So we hit the autobahns back south to the border towns, to the red flags of Schaffhausen where the cowbell keyrings sound.
And if the Devil loves details then Godliness floats in the vague and I can't remember how I felt at that stage, though I'm pretty sure that I was in love with you.
And you picked your favourite saint and bought an ashtray in her name, in the gift shop by the lake that bled blue rivers full of rain.
And truth was stretched like cling film over a john, the kind they have by the autobahns, and I pissed on my own shoes for what seemed like hours.
The word John I'd caught like cooties from your Mother tongue, with the up speak of a faker and other words I left unsung.
But you were so young and I was old enough to know these things never turn out how you had supposed when you are exchanging your final monologues.
So I left you in the lobby, I set my walkman down on your knee. I'd imagined it romantic like Troilus' new sleeve.
Since then you just make cameos when I'm asleep, you're the William Shatner of this elite genre of women that I have loved and lost. But with Facebook hope and Myspace I could find you in a keystroke, but for air fares and the likelihood you'd have found another bloke.

Lyrics submitted by Hintonian

Berlin Syndrome song meanings
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