You hold a wrench in your right hand.
You stand where salty breezes land.
Your jacket wears a heavy stain.
You count the drops of midnight rain.
The dial tone hums a low refrain.
A steady pulse inside your vein.
You strip the plastic from the lead.
While city lights turn gold and red.
You are the ghost of the telephone.
A rusted king on a plastic throne.
Connecting lines that no one needs.
While every broken circuit bleeds.
A flashing bulb glows in the haze.
You wander through a metal maze.
The solder smokes a silver grey.
You wish the night would drift away.
You are the ghost of the telephone.
A rusted king on a plastic throne.
Connecting lines that no one needs.
While every broken circuit bleeds.
The switchboard clicks a rhythmic beat.
The dampness clings to your tired feet.
You splice the cable, tight and thin.
Wait for the ringing to begin.
Your toolbox opens with a creak.
The copper wires are thin and weak.
You trace the current to the wall.
And wait for one last distant call.
The midnight drizzle coats your skin.
The urban hum begins to spin.
You twist the metal, lock the gear.
The dial tone is all you hear.
You are the ghost of the telephone.
A rusted king on a plastic throne.
Connecting lines that no one needs.
While every broken circuit bleeds.
Just copper wire rust.
Sinking in the dust.
Copper wire rust.
