i am mad at you
and the boys you keep in your back pocket
tied to expired nostalgia and jet black ink

we all have tried to run away at some point
and i'm so sorry that you need someone to fold you up
just so you can try to fly away

i am mad at you
and the way you might only see yourself
in every set of christmas lights

beer basements and fake friends
naps in strangers beds
none of that match the love and concern of four friends

so go ahead and load your gun with spontaneity
but i will always sense the planned
and timed rhythm between every shot