Miike Snow

Please, the ward he offers me a pack of cigarettes
They aren’t his, and yet I feel it coming on
I feel it coming on a sense of welling grief
And though they‘re serving samovar, somehow I’d rather be
Up in an airplane above the archipelago
I stuttered in my armour in an airplane above the archipelago
I could see where you grew up, and the murderer in me
Please, the blanket and the sheets
The leaves the gardener rakes are articles of faith
The company believes I’m running derelict around these foreign streets
The colonel knows I want to crack his head for taking me