|
Another stain, wipes, over the face |
|
Of an entire, clutch, of reasonable guys |
|
I flip a coin, seems, the luck has run out |
|
It's 2:40 and the clocks are wrong |
|
Another stain, matched, by the reward |
|
Another work, made, to show off the pose |
|
Another way, stop, and show some respect |
|
For those trying and abandoning |
|
I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
|
With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
She seemed to know how twisted is this |
|
My back is ricked, spiked, down to the spine |
|
Lie flat on floors, with vertebrae down |
|
Pitch perfect like a slamming door |
|
But when it comes I'll be prepared |
|
This off course rain jostling down |
|
Blaming the mind, or, anything close |
|
You can't put it on forgetfulness, so |
|
I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
|
With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Zoom out at speeds with sharp intakes of breath |
|
Heads spinning up in the corners |
|
Closer than it even began |
|
I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
|
With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
