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Every day when I come home
I expect to find you gone
A folded message by the phone
The television left switched on
With every single channel showing
Slow-mo pictures of you going
My legs would give way under me
In front of our old red settee
Your folded note unfolding me
I'd hit my head on the TV
Where every channel kept repeating
Slow-mo pictures of you leaving
I've got a little something for ya
P-P-P-Paranoia
Like a poor man's Howard Hughes
I'd stop wearing socks and shoes
Only touch things with tissues
Looking for you on the news
In every piece of war reporting
Through the door I'd see you walking
I'd become preoccupied
With people I don't know who've died
Like one of those unusuals
Who go to strangers' funerals
In every single TV death
I'd see the reason why you left
Oh God, what would I do
My life would fall apart without you
I don't see what you see
In a stupid loser like me
And every day when I come home
I expect to find you gone
I've got a little something for ya
P-P-P-Paranoia