Imogen Heap

I've got to get on it.
I've got to get on it.
I've got to get on it.
Bodies disengaged, our mouths are fleshing over.
It's just an echo game, irises retreating to ovals of white.
The urge to feel your face, and blood rushing to paint my handprint.
A Frisbee one by one; your vinyl on lamanent, just prefer some kind of contact.
Chorus:
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First train home, I've got to get on it.
To Catch, to catch, catch-catch, catch.
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First Train home
Temporal deadzone where clocks are barely breathing.
Yet no one cares to notice for all the yelling, all night clamor to hold it together.
I want to play don't wait forms in the hideaway
I want to get on with getting on with things
I want to run in fields, paint the kitchen, and love someone
And I can't do any of that here, can I?
First train home, I've got to get on it.
First train home, I've got to get on it.