Nash Harding

Michael:
There’s a kid who goes by Nash and who’s been drifting round the streets
No memory past a few months ago and really violent dreams
No where to go and barely sleeps, he makes some change by day
Painting street art for pedestrians, he’s magic some might say
Cause at night in the back alleys, he paints things you can’t believe
Lands and magic doorways, otherwordly scenes
Otherwise he hangs out in all the hippy clubs and coffee shops
Hiding from Arcadia, measuring days with coffee cups
Nash:
When the good times rage and they’re all so thrilld
And you’re glad you’re her at the bash but still
You’re the stranger who just wandered in
You’re the juice who’s lost inside a sea of gin
You’re the orphan at the ballroom dance
You’re the bum in stolen coat and pants
Cinderella waiting for the chime
Of the midnight bells and she’s lost track of time
And spare a drink for the gate crasher
And you think your mind may be broke you’ve no
Memories before a few months ago
Since you woke up in that strange odd place
Did you exist before that very day