Strangers looking fine, like nothing’s on the line, but deep, deep down inside we’d all want to resign if nothing’s on the line, we wouldn’t last the night if nothing’s on the line. I lost you, after Saigon, I crossed you, like an ocean, your commons so uncommonly aligned, I’m waiting but nothing’s on the line, nothing’s on the line . . . Locomotive shine, now Whitman’s only sign, we’d like to see him live but no one’s on the line, no one’s on the line and we won’t last the night if no one’s on the line. I lost you, after Saigon, I crossed you, like an ocean, your commons so uncommonly aligned, I’m waiting but nothing’s on the line, nothing’s on the line . . .