It is time to change the way things are, scratch that smell from our noses, like **** in a bottle chucked out the window while going 90,
The free fall fogs up the glasses on a blushed face, 40oz till we down the sound of crying,
Lie across the ocean
Lie across the land
Send truth over and watch it slip through the cracks,
Breached news of frustration calls "Canada is coming, what the **** is America doing,"
We do our best to travel against all odds, piloting a spoon made of silver into a greedy pocket originally meant to feed those eating mud pie, baking in an ever dying sun as fish float up to the surface,
Choking down the salt water to avoid drill, give them a gun instead, it will protect our false memories and concocted purpose,
This was paid for by ink soaked bones working in minimum oxygen to the brain, featured on rolls of film stripping off clothes covered in lust,
Taking hold of a crowd with merely this voice, conducting an audience with bed knobs and broomsticks, rhythmically grinding the **** awry, taste this sun from the lips of a fairy, mystical or not we were there to receive,
Open our hearts via chaos trained messages, massaging back pains to the point of tears, electromagnetism therapy causing the lights around the dance floor to flicker, moving at incomprehensible speeds relating colors between points B to Z,
On numbered grids the scale is curved to fit the description of another one biting the dust,
And as we finally rest on cold stones the Panic sets in.
