I get home from work and you're still standing in your dressing gown, well what am I to do?
I know all the things around your head, and what they do to you.
What are we coming to? what are we gonna do?
Blame it on the black star, blame it on the falling sky, blame it on the satellite that beams me home.
The troubled words of a troubled mind, I try to understand what is eating you.
I try to stay awake but its fifty eight hours, since that I last slept with you.
What are we coming to? I just don't know anymore.
Blame it on the black star, blame it on the falling sky, blame it on the satellite that beams me home.
I get on the train and I just stand about, now that I don't think of you.
I keep falling over I keep passing out, when I see a face like you.
What am I coming to? I'm gonna melt down.
Blame it on the black star, blame it on the falling sky, blame it on the satellite that beams me home.
Cry this is killing me, cry this is killing me.