written by Fran Healy

Rain on the brain
Now there's flowers in your window
She, oh, she's so strange
I don't know anything about her
If it's all the same to you
Here's what I'm going to do
I'm going to write a song
And I'm going to sing it to everyone
And then I'll sing it to you
'cos it was you that wrote it too
This could be the last train

Search within yourself
For feelings, everybody's got them
You left me on the shelf
And now there's no one to rely on
If it's all the same to you
Here's what I'm going to do
I'm going to buy a gun
And I'm going to shoot everything, everyone
And then [bad word] for you
'cos it was you that drove me too
This could be the last train

Rear window, with the room
In her hair and on her jacket
There's a picture in white of Che Guevara
As he sits beneath the tree
But that's not important
But he looked a bit like me
If you took all the little feelings in your heart
And took all those little feelings all apart
Oh now what's the point in doing all of that?