|
He talks a lot but never talks to anyone at all |
|
He shakes his fists at busses and old posters on the walls |
|
He knows someone who knew something about J.F.K. |
|
But his friends are just the shadows in the halls and alleyways |
|
The rumbling frozen pipes whisper secrets in the night |
|
In the coffee grounds, his fingers sketch a portrait of his wife |
|
She knew the legal eagle when his wings swept through the stars |
|
Before he shut the furnace down and sealed away his heart |
|
chorus: |
|
It's Gauguin gone Hollywood again |
|
A sleeping giant inside a rabbit's skin |
|
Tahitian doors beyond the painted veil |
|
Another simple mind adrift |
|
Like Gauguin going Hollywood again |
|
The day lacks color, days are duller than a butter knife |
|
Rusty water running through hands out of touch with life |
|
A man of independent means, he'd have us all believe |
|
A soul who throws his wings away before he goes to sleep |
|
(repeat chorus) |
|
If only for a moment, the dead weight were alive |
|
An invitation for the flame to shine a light inside |
|
Illuminating darkness, giving him release |
|
Then someday in his trash can we'll find a masterpiece |
|
(repeat chorus) |
|
Like Gauguin going Hollywood again |
