Our wallets are on fire In a trash bin of desires Pay me! says my letter head But I don't write to anyone these days
I hear whistling from the second floor I sharpen knives behind the bedroom door Half my friends who watch the news Say they won't talk to men no more
And fireworks are such a waste But words leave a rotten aftertaste Like dog whistles you might not have heard The things that have been said Someone's been tickling the neighborhood Looking for questionable brotherhoods The basements have been shaking Oozing glop and gunk and pus and goo
I use the elevator in emergencies Life's an accelerator for uncertainties I need a bank account for surgery fees Because I'm an incubator for babies feet
Breaking bread by the ocean's shore Throwing it in like it's cereal Eating it up with my tiny spork While they come after me with flaming pitchforks
Not sure what's up or down or what is what Been questioning things between hiccups And when my favorite shows are buffering I make a little time for suffering
I woke up once sweating pumpkin soup I lost all comfort and all comfort food I do my best to sound trivial But we have done things that are unforgivable
They're backpedaling on history I see an upcoming whiplash injury Got shiny streamers on my bicycle I'd like to think I'm still excitable Things are raging in the underground You can see them on our annual ultrasounds Happy new year, unhappy dears The old one can go die between trauma shears
It was a wild ride, I'm still throwing up Someone says I'm just gonna have to live with that Heard those old men's jokes from our own fathers You can have a greeting card playing canned laughter
Someone stabbed someone with a pencil Sometimes the news is strangely existential They survived but they're still in ICU Got a novel written on their scar tissue:
"Our wallets are on fire in a trash bin of desires Pay me! says my letter head But I don't write to anyone these days."Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
