The moon hangs like the blade of an axe tonight, and it's poised to drop sometime soon enough on this dump truck where I lie mixed up with the morning's trash.
So I said, "lets forget these days and just try to build some solid ground. Maybe someday we could stand straight up with our faces in the wind and scream to the world."
The last time that I saw you, August of '99, I should've had my hammer and a few rusty spikes to nail you on a wall and use bottles to catch your blood
This song will become the anthem of your underground. You're two floors down getting high in the back room. If I flooded out your house, do you think you'd make it out,
I stepped out into the night and put my feet down on the wet patio floor The sky's air had been cooling and steam rose from everywhere I could feel drops of rain slipping off tree's leaves and splattering to the ground
Her life was magazines and faithful TV screens selling an empty dream of cars and calories and everything in between the sun and Saturn's ring, but the price tag can't be seen and it took bites out
And now I finally see that the further we go we're only treading ground that we already know. I could write you a song, send you a note, or empty out your trash