White glow of the TV set Lights dancing on the screen Voice-overs rise like minarets Then fall diatonically Should I answer a friend's distress call Or should I go to sleep? Would I, like the voices rise and fall, What's it to me? All those hours of wasted time Have never crossed my mind Here I am comfortable In arm's reach of the black remote Here I am comfortable Surrounded by strings and bows Let everyone else go Nights on Kirkwood so serene Far from the sirens and the screams I could write or I could read Go next door and smoke some weed As long as I don't have to think About who the hell's running this mess Or what shit they're writing up in the Stone or NME Go out and make a last call Or sit here and do nothing at all What's it to me? All those hours of wasted time Have never crossed my mind Here I am comfortable In arm's reach of the black remote Here I am comfortable All those clowns, what can they know? Let everyone else go