It's Tuesday and I already hit the bottle. I can't even fall in love at happy hour. I think i'll go home now and dream about the nightmares that could be, like all my friends turning inly my enemies, you're good at pushing me out.
Late that night i am awakened by the banshee's cry, and I am much too scared to get a drink. I see the rusty swing set blow from generations long ago, under the moonlight the plow is stained by the power of your name, you're good at pushing me out.
The farmer's daughter raises hell when i try to kiss her, screaming "daddies" now i run. here's to sickle swinging fun. You're good at pushing me out.