here shall we live in this terrible town
where the price for our eyes shall squeeze them tight like a fist
and the walls shall have eyes 
and the doors shall have ears
but we'll dance in the dark 
and they'll play with our lives

like a slow burn leading us on and on and on
like a slow burn turning us round and round and round
but who are we? So small in times such as these
slow burn, slow burn


David Bowie (*)