Текст: Tori Amos. Wednesday.

Nothing here to fear. I'm just sitting around,
Being foolish when there is work to be done.
Just a hang-up call and the quiet breathing,
Of our Persian we call Cajun on a Wednesday.
So we go from year to year with secrets we've been keeping.
Though you say you're not a Templar man.
Seems as if we're circling for very different reasons.
But one day the Eagle has to land.

Out past the fountain, a left by the station,
I start the day in the usual way.
Then think 'well why not' and stop for a coffee,
Then begin to recall things that you say.


No one's at the door. You suggest a ghost,
Perhaps a phantom I agree with this in part.
Something is with us I can't put my finger on,
Is Thumbelina size ten on a Wednesday?
So we go from year to year with secrets we've been keeping.
Though you say you're not a Templar man.
You tell me to cheer up, you suspect we're oddly even.
Even, still, the Eagle has to land.


Out past the fountain, a left by the station, I start the day in the usual way.
Then think 'well why not' and stop for a coffee,
Then begin to recall things that you say.
Pluck up the courage and snap, it's gone again.
I start humming "When Doves Cry."
Can someone help me, I think that I'm Lost here.
Lost in a place called America...