Spilt Needles
|
|
I've earned myself an impossible crime,
|
I have to paint myself a hole and fall inside.
|
If it's far enough in sight and rhyme,
|
I get to wear another dress and count in time.
|
|
Oh, won't you do me the favor, man,
|
Of forgiving my
|
Polymorphing opinion here
|
On your vague outline.
|
|
Find myself another burning gate,
|
A pretty face, a vague idea I can't relate,
|
And this is what you get for pulling pins,
|
Out of the hole inside the hole you're in.
|
|
It's like I'm perched on the handle bars
|
Of a blind man's bike.
|
No straws to grab, just the rushing wind...
|
On a rolling mind.
|
|
They'll want you to decide
|
Eventually, it happens-
|
Some gather on one side,
|
With all their pearlys snapping,
|
They close the basement door,
|
That sets our teeth to chatter,
|
You never saw it before,
|
But now that hardly matters.
|
|
You're old enough, boy,
|
Too many summers you've enjoyed.
|
So spin the wheel,
|
We'll set you up with some odd convictions,
|
Because you're finally golden, boy
|
|
It's like I'm perched on the handle bars
|
Of a blind man's bike.
|
No straws to grab, just the rushing wind...
|
On a rolling mind.
|
|
-----------------
|
Spilt Needles
|
| The Shins |
