| As I lay me down to fall asleep | |
| With my demons dying and my pilot light weak | |
| I curse the last six months I been hiding behind a moustache, yeah | |
| And to those last ten years I been howling a paper moon: well fuck you | |
| This goes out to all my under done | |
| Other tongue lung long frontmen | |
| (This is what the ghost of someone's dad says) | |
| And all us earth growths, some planted | |
| And some pulled | |
| (Shut up and put your money where your mouth is) | |
| Shine a flashlight in a hat box and spin | |
| An empty oyster shell and celebrate the hollows | |
| This goes out to dirty dancing cursing back masking | |
| Back slidden pastor's kids | |
| (From behind bars it's not so hard to see he's risen) | |
| And all us earth growths, some planted | |
| And some pulled | |
| (But nobody finds god and then goes to prison) | |
| In Berlin I saw two men fuck | |
| In a dark corner of a basketball court | |
| Just the slight jingle of pocket change pulsing | |
| In the tourist part I lost fifty euros | |
| To a guy with the walnut shells and the marble | |
| It really pissed me off, so ooh I thought I'd go | |
| Back to get my money but all my homies warned me | |
| Oh no, those gypsies probably got knives | |
| This goes out to all my under brewed | |
| Double duped two times true fools | |
| (Stuck faking a phone call or texting for company) | |
| And all us earth grows, some planted | |
| And some pulled | |
| (Like a married in uncle at a family function) | |
| I got them shaky gums and a couple of loose tooths | |
| Now tell me, what should I do my god | |
| The clock's always stuck telling, 11:11, or 3:32 | |
| This goes out to all my under done | |
| Other tongued lung long frontmen | |
| (Even just Joanna Newsom's left hand) | |
| And all us earth growths, some planted | |
| And some pulled | |
| (I bet could beat the pants in bass off your best man) | |
| This goes out to all my underdone | |
| Other tongued lung long frontmen | |
| (This is what the ghost of someone's dad says) | |
| And all us earth growths, | |
| Doing the croak like it ain't no joke | |
| In a crowded room project a debonair aloof impermanance | |
| Be shrouded loosely in an air of indeterminates |
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