its 4 o'clock on a thursday morning
i never went to bed
i suppose, maybe, because i was pouring
this tar all out of my head

splashing and splintering that white, stainless floor
that beautiful, cryptic roar
then subsides with the fire
as i wait to expire

for my memories are fleeting
and there never was a cure
that magical fix i've been seeking
was only a dreamy lure

and i think my brain might've followed
that tar's gentle roar
and my heart, it left me there hollowed
as it lept right out the front door