The moments of violence rewound and replayed, The furious sirens in the smoky arcades, The poisonous flowers in the shop front display, The signs of erosion, the doldrums decay. So much hate for this small town, The pylons parade, The swans and the signets, the midnight soiree, The smell of another mans sickness, The stench of betrayal, Perpetual fixtures, the listless un-named.
And which way do you step if nothing's as it seems, And how're you meant to feel if you can't describe the feeling, What do you believe when you see nothing worth believing, and see?
The felled and the fallen, ten rounds with themselves, The bells of birth and abortion, ring like echoing shells, The cold engine stalling, broken glass in the morning, So much hate for this small town, hate for this small town. And the night is on fire, they pull their scarves tight, Throwing flames at the houses, the owners inside, It's vile and relentless, dull and dark is the mind, The vital emotions destroyed and re-wired.
And which way do you step if nothing's as it seems, And how're you meant to feel if you can't describe the feeling, What do you believe when you see nothing worth believing, and see?
That the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire.
Feels like my head's a mad suburbia, Pencilled in eyebrows, burgundy wigs and hernias, And men who should've taken chances earlier, When their skin was clear and their hair was dark and curlier. Roll up to the empty fair, fat women on valium and men who scrape pony tails out of neck hair, Like moths toward the light, blinded by the twilight of their own lives.
And which way do you step if nothing's as it seems, And how're you meant to feel if you can't describe the feeling, What do you believe when you see nothing worth believing, and see?
That the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire, the night is on fire.