It's your game
|
you have managed to grab everyone's attention
|
the spotlight scorching your flesh
|
caught between the pedestal and ceiling
|
I can't just stand there to watch it as it raises
|
soon it will crush you entirely
|
and you know I would pull every arm and leg
|
from socket of my own to just reach you
|
and with all my force and weight I'd tip you over
|
because I know you would land feet first
|
I'd Expect your glare
|
|
Oh how my hand shakes from satisfaction
|
this ink I drain dries like the salt on your wound
|
don't forget to buy them out
|
burn the, burn the confession box
|
don't forget to win their hearts
|
and level the chapel
|
|
Sweet irony, sarcasm always had its plague upon me
|
can we humor this just for now?
|
caught between the salted wound and punchline
|
funnier then than now
|
I've always, how I've missed it
|
this value called value
|
|
Oh how my hand shakes from satisfaction
|
this ink I drain dries like the salt on your wound
|
|
at this my voice is dry
|
as you dissect my words
|
and the knots that form
|
may you press them against your worth
|
|
don't forget to buy them out
|
burn the, burn the confession box
|
don't forget to win their hearts
|
and level the chapel
|
|
This is when politics turns to gossip
|
|
-----------------
|
Napoleon
|
| Race The Sun |
