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Frozen out of focus, the sunday crowd |
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Started dreaming of television turned up too loud. |
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Coded conversation, half baked and tired, |
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Left us sleeping on blacktops burning the motor mile. |
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And underneath the arcade, details collide |
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There's good shopping, but all those patrons have too much style. |
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And moving in slow motion the boulevard started seeping |
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With them half-ravers and techno bars. |
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It is like below the neon sign |
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All speeding past the line and thrashing, i'm in paradise. |
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Sealed in concentration, the lantern lights |
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Started shrinking on dead men drinking white liquor wine. |
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And eyed the complication, the methane gas |
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Started leaking on bastards burning half red and black. |
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We can't lie below imperfect time |
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All speeding past the line and thrashing, i'm in paradise. |
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And standing at the gates of NC state fair, |
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Saw you smoking with all those new friends you've got to spare. |
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And melting back in focus the sunday crowd |
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Started sleeping with white trash heroes, tv's turned down. |
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In he lies, below the neon sky |
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All speeding past the line and thrashing, i'm in paradise. |
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We can't lie below imperfect time |
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All dreaming of the white trash heroes on the boulevard. |
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It is like below the neon sky |
|
All speeding past the line and thrashing on the boulevard. |
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We can't lie below imperfect time |
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All dreaming of the white trash heroes, i'm in paradise. |
