I got a semi hollow body on my chest. My back hurts.
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My throat is feeling stressed.
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I swear by the end of the night, I'll be coughing up the morning drive.
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The strings are cutting through my skin.
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The rash opens up again, I'm worn out.
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For rock's sake, I'm worn out.
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My sweat burns the eyes to shit, like my eyebrows got up and quit.
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Now I sit with my head down low with my shoes sticking to the floor.
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I know that we feel the same. Beaten up by the things we savor.
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We're worn out. We try to hit the high notes.
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It might now always go the way that we want it to.
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We gotta just go, 'cause we might not be here again.
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We gotta go, we gotta go as far as can go.
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We're missing notes, but who's looking.
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We're fucking up, but we're cooking.
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It ain't easy double working. That's exactly what we're doing.
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For right now, the world is caution.
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It's a struggle, it's a blur, but we're moving.
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I've been swinging from my last nerve over the thinnest ice you'd never seen on earth.
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If it wasn't for supporting hands, I'd be falling through the cracks again.
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But one thing sure hasn't changed.
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Once satire takes the stage, we'll be worn out.
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|
-----------------
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We Dance On The Ruins Of The Stupid Stage
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| None More Black |
