Typing letters to the dead
Late at night on a closed piano lid
She circles past, She fills your glass
But she don't recognise the song

And once in a life time she says
The waking life
Stitched together in your head
Well, what if it's only worth
The bundle of nerves it's written on?

And I don't need these arms anymore
I don't need this heart, not to love
I don't need this skin and bones
At all

There's a way you've always known her
Telephone between her cheek and her shoulder
And eyes like crystal balls
That just won't shutup
About the future of the future

Ramona was a waitress
All but made of information
In a bar under the third bridge
She says she's looking forward
To living forever

And I won't need these arms anymore
I won't need this heart, not alone
I won't need this skin and bones
At all
At all, at all, at all, at all, at all

Ramona was a waitress