You stand where the salt meets the pine
A rusted old hook on a line
The coffee is cold in your hand
You watch over this stretch of land
You are the ghost of the wire
Watching the city on fire
High on a telephone pole
Keeping a grip on your soul
The current is pulling you deep
While all of the city folk sleep
You smell like the grease and the brine
Waiting for one golden sign
You are the ghost of the wire
Watching the city on fire
High on a telephone pole
Keeping a grip on your soul
The needles are sharp on the floor
You don't want to go back for more
The bass of the water is loud
Hidden away from the crowd
You are the ghost of the wire
Watching the city on fire
High on a telephone pole
Keeping a grip on your soul
Your boots are all worn at the heel
The weight of the silence is real
You count every blink of the light
Cutting a hole through the night
The current is fast and it's cold
The stories are already told
You lean on the wind and the grit
Waiting for something to hit
The skyline is distant and blue
A world that is foreign to you
You cast out a line in the black
Knowing you're never coming back
You are the ghost of the wire
Watching the city on fire
High on a telephone pole
Keeping a grip on your soul
Just a ghost on the wire.
Just a ghost.
