By the roadside shrine there's a place Selling bouquets of cellophane That's where they meet in this desolate place And the more they see, the more they stay Thrown light to winter roses into a broken vase.... They're playing the hand they play... All in the game they play... She puts her faith in the moment... Outsiders He puts his faith in the moment... Outsiders And his clothes are all covered in dew As she writhes in twisted sheets Feel the pulse and the power of youth And what you see isn't what's underneath They're playing the hand they play... All in the game they made...