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