Fat Rolf picked a strange hill to die on.
Took off his shirt and staked a line.
And it might be that he will just disappear.
This pilgrimage may be a lie.
Those aeroplanes he made from your notes.
From his window sent them south.
There may be a light in some Northern state,
But round here redemption's been worn out.

Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.

Peter is sleeping on the corner,
He's wearing all his second clothes.
And it may be that he can find a better place,
But out here no-one ever really knows.
Taller girls make ballerinas;
Jenny falls asleep on the stairs.
And it may be she ends up going,
But we might not discover where.

Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.

Electric spiders made of lightning,
Rage like tyrants cross the sky.
Rolf has planned this moment coming,
He's holding fast his metal kite.

And you might find him in the morning.
And they may talk of whiskey in his blood.
It might be that they will never understand,
How a tide became a flood.

Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.
We have no way of knowing
How Fat Rolf made his own way back.