we drive on different backseats
with handguns in our head
to settle into a garden
where angels are picked and bred.

to countries of modern nature
and sandbanks off the shore
we drive on different backseats
wishing there was something more.

in the end we're walking towards
a guilty stream with a polite whale
while the cops drift us towards an
ocean in a county jail.

tomorrow night may feel like dying
yet the storm has left the port
so we'll drive on different backseats
die in a home we've barely known.