We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives
And some of us sway back and forth in the wind
Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives

We search with doubting eyes for the perfect wives
Exes with whom you never thought your love would end
We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives

Our exit strategy involves smoke grenades and swan dives
The clapping of our black shoed feet a drum to mend
Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives

We Stuff our chests with filling paper derives
Our hollowed bodies suffer no strength to send
We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives

Scaring crows that steal the fabric of our lies
Clawed hands and teeth and fingers we cannot bend
Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives

Don your pumpkin head and haunt the field of your lives
Until you have no more joy or fear or sorrow left to lend
We are all nailed to posts in the fields of our lives
Like the chimes grandmother made from old knives