The great American mischief has muted our hearts and our rhythms are met with the inharmonious grunts of electric guitars.
It's all but too much.
So nobody out there believes the obscene are reprieved.
Everybody get fed up.
My baby better get high cause, I've got something that I need to confess.
The dead men talking are longing for so much more than simply the obvious.
Cut us off.
We're suffering, hysterical, lighting the flare from the foot of her bed.
I've been begging you for less mercy than this.
But the only thing you need to know, is that you never wanted to know.
Take it off, take it back, or take cover because we're nearing a nerve.
Dead is wasted on the patient, so make haste and head for the wake.
Now the hornets inhabit the hearts we've abandoned.
We are gone.
Cast aside our clothes like funeral roses, and dance straight through the psalm.
I was right all along
I'm dead, in the water.
Don't come for me.
I was once alive in the desert