Hit the road and you ignite.
|
Just add Pabst and eyes grow wild.
|
I know this town has got you down
|
and you can't take the pain she brings,
|
so fuck old friends you've got four here,
|
tight like strings.
|
We may never make sense to them.
|
Because of who we are,
|
because of what we do.
|
But what good are they anyway,
|
when we can only cry on tour?
|
Now you're fighting the need to be alone,
|
because a hundred miles outside your calling zone,
|
there's a bed, a dog, and a girl you once called Home.
|
But like all good things, they must end,
|
so just tough it out with your dirty friends.
|
How good were "things" anyway?
|
When the pretense won't wash away?
|
And these cigarettes are smoking you.
|
And the sex is doing nothing.
|
And it seems there is no medicine, just that cliched Open Road.
|
We've been sitting here too long. Lets go.
|
I know this town has got you down,
|
and you can't take the pain she brings.
|
Fuck old friends, you've got four here, tight like strings.
|
|
-----------------
|
Like Strings (Spell It With A K)
|
| As Friends Rust |
