| They estimate | |
| The falling sun | |
| And the Orphists plight | |
| Stimulated no one | |
| So call me | |
| On no sleep | |
| With just a little something | |
| To remind us what to do | |
| If you run, run like hell | |
| And remember there's history | |
| And if they don't believe you | |
| Just send them back to me | |
| Because they can't deny | |
| They just have to see | |
| That the roots and the ruins are the same thing | |
| They are the same thing | |
| I often hear | |
| The new poetry | |
| From your scratchy throat | |
| At quarter-after-three | |
| That's when I know I owe this to you | |
| As autumn owes the trees | |
| With their roots still strong | |
| From the ruins of some stray seed | |
| Look out for guns | |
| Look out for girls | |
| And other stories that could tear apart our world | |
| And no matter what | |
| No matter what you do | |
| I will look out for you | |
| Look out for guns | |
| Look out for girls | |
| And other stories that could tear apart our world | |
| And no matter what | |
| No matter what you do | |
| I will look out for you |
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