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 crossed my mind      Here I am comfortable   In arm's reach of the black remote   Here I am comfortable   Surrounded by strings 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 in the Stone or NME   Go out and make a last call   Or sit here and do nothing at all   What's it to me?      All those hours of wasted time   Have never crossed 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