White glow of the TV set   Lights dancing on the screen   Voice-overs rise like minarets   Then fall diatonically.   Should I answer a friend's distress call   Or should I go to sleep?   Would I, like the voices rise and fall,   What's it to me?      All those hours of wasted time   Have never passed my mind.      Here I am comfortable   In arm's reach of the black remote.   Here I am comfortable   Surrounded by stings and bows.   Let everyone else go.      Nights on Kirkwood so serene   Far from the sirens and the screams   I could write or I could read   Go next door and smoke some weed   As long as I don't have to think   About who the hell's running this mess   Or what shit they're writing up the Stone or NME   Go out and make last call   Or sit here and do nothing at all   What's it to me?      All those hours of wasted time   Have never passed my mind.      Here I am comfortable   In arm's reach of the black remote.   Here I am comfortable   All those clowns, what can they know?   Let everyone else go.