Texty: Jam (The). Setting Sons. Private Hell.

Closer than close
you see yourself
A mirrored image
of what you wanted to be.
As each day goes by
a little more

You can't remember
what it was you wanted anyway.
The fingers feel the lines

they prod the space
Your ageing face
the face that once was so beautiful,
is still there but unrecognizable

Private Hell.
The man who you once loved

is bald and fat
And seldom in
working late as usual.
Your interest has waned
you feel the strain
The bed springs snap
on the occasions he lies upon you -
close your eyes and think of nothing but -
Private Hell.
Think of Emma

wonder what she's doing
Her husband Terry
and your grandchildren.
Think of Edward
who's still at college
You send him letters
which he doesn't acknowledge.
'Cause he don't care,
They don't care.
'Cause they're all going through their own
Private Hell.
The morning slips away

in a valium haze,
And catalogues
and numerous cups of coffee.
In the afternoon
the weekly food,
Is put in bags
as you float off down the high street
The shop windows reflect

play a nameless host,
To a closet ghost
a picture of your fantasy
A victim of your misery
and Private Hell
Alone at 6 o'clock

you drop a cup
You see it smash
inside you crack
You can't go on
but you sweep it up
Safe at last inside your Private Hell
Sanity at last inside your Private Hell