Over pale German ale Michael tells us the tale

of the man who had lived one floor down

For 50 long years no one else ventured near

They walked through the hall

Unaware of the squalor that he kept around

Newspapers and bags wrappers and rags

Treasures and trash piled high

A great wall of Germany built from its history

Bric-a-brac bricks and the buzzing of flies

All alone in his room sealed in his tomb

When they finally opened the door

He had died in his chair three days resting there

Mountains of memories in stacks on the floor

What makes it so strong the urge to hold on

to things we should really let go?

In a one-man museum where people can’t see them

Secrets we keep from the neighbours below

Munich wakes up in the morning and washes his face

Sadness makes marks you can feel in the dark

Fresh paint and plaster are meant to erase

Climbing each flight of the staircase you might feel

the footsteps of those gone before

The coming and going, the uneasy unknowing

of those who have been through the war

Michael leads us upstairs to the room we will share

after we've played our concert that night

While the boys go out drinking, I lay here thinking

Ashamed to feel lonely I read Truman Capote just to keep on the light

Till I hear them stumbling, laughing and mumbling,

tumbling down cobblestone streets

In just a few hours they'll take their cold showers, put cowboy boots back on their feet

Munich wakes up in the morning and washes his face

Sadness makes marks you can feel in the dark

Fresh paint and plaster are meant to erase

Climbing each flight of the staircase you might feel

the footsteps of those gone before

The coming and going, the uneasy unknowing

of those who have been through the war