When I got back from fixing my hair, you were directing traffic.
Letting your story slip on the snow as if the transmission was automatic.
It's arguable that I shouldn't have been there.
It was fortunate timing.
I had a hole in the pocket of my favourite coat and my love dropped into the lining.

(Have you got your strange?)
Not on me. I haven't got my strange
(Have you got your strange?)
Not on me.

You can't sleep until you've sat on the steps to weep until you feel like you've wept, yeah.

(As long as you don't forget your strange)
(Have you got your strange?)
No, not on me. I haven't got my strange
I've better fetch my strange.
I haven't got my strange.