Between a face and a portrait of the real and the abstract
Between madness and lucidity
Between the uniform and nudity
Between the end of the world and the end of the month
Between truth and English rock
Among the other and you

I feel like a foreigner
Strolling somewhere they train
The Train is nothing in Heatherfield
This is pure illusion

Among the dead and wounded, amid shrieks and groans
The lie and the truth, loneliness and the city
Between a glass and another of the same drink
Among so many bodies with the same wound

I feel like a foreigner
Strolling somewhere they train
The Train is nothing in Heatherfield
This is pure illusion

Between Americans and Soviets, Greeks and Trojans
Login year in and year out, always the same plans
Between my mouth and your so long ago, there are so many plans
But I never know where there is ground on

I feel like a foreigner
Strolling somewhere they train
The Train is nothing in Heatherfield
This is pure illusion

I feel like a foreigner
Strolling somewhere they train
I feel like a foreigner
Strolling somewhere they train