It is the dead of the night    Oh the dead of the night    I live on a dream, it came to me    When I was young    I brought it here, and now for years    The streets of London keep it safe and warm    Every morning it dies and it is reborn    In the dead of the night          I keep a pencil and a book    I say this is how a life can look    Russian roulette, French-kissed cigarette    And the silence like an anvil    The things that you learn, but now all    that burns    Is a candle    And the fog melts over the night, and    it softens the edges    I begin to write in the dead of the night          A bead of sweat runs down my arm    And I drink it from my skin    It is the most real thing that I feel    It is communion    Bless the meek    Heal the sick    Protect the weak    In the dead of the night