| Words are the worst way to say what I have to say | |
| But sometimes you can't play how you want to play to show it well | |
| And this is one splinter, splinter of a sentence | |
| Both a pain and a pleasure to try to expel, but I have to tell | |
| About the years of influence and artless advice | |
| That can still only escape in a struggling, stilted excuse for a smile | |
| And when you're parked over on the wrong side of nowhere | |
| No amount off nothing is going to make it worthwhile | |
| A touch, subdivided, rinsed, and sold | |
| Before the hands have a chance to get cold as an eyelash pries an hour from the schedules of the uninvolved | |
| And your sills so-called insulation | |
| Can only sigh at December Sundays, unsolved | |
| So like the transportation of the suns | |
| You must hold steady to the ones who light your mornings, nights, and afternoons | |
| And if you should grow angry with the pace of chance | |
| Don't be afraid to make some plans for December Sundays soon | |
| Today you missed her getting up, once again | |
| Well boy, you've got to listen to me | |
| Promise her you'll rise this day next year, from this very bed | |
| From this very bed | |
| From this very bed | |
| Today you missed her getting up, once again | |
| Well boy, you've got to listen to me | |
| Promise her you'll rise this day next year, from this very bed | |
| From this very bed | |
| From this very bed |
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