|
Leaves are reminders |
|
The small fallen signpost |
|
You are going cold |
|
Under the bleachers |
|
You can't hide forever |
|
The air has grown old |
|
What you wanted to say |
|
Has now all blown away |
|
Frozen the dirt roads |
|
The ruts become guides and you're mind you're confined |
|
Stumbling backwards |
|
To where you'll end up and it's all been defined |
|
It's the force of the cold and the chances you've sold |
|
And I'm killing this time but it's not really mine |
|
Don't give me the wide eyes and act like you don't know |
|
These small towns have ways of making you feel sorry |
|
Don't tell me, I know |
|
I'm off |
|
Pulling your hair and you don't seem to care |
|
You're no fun anymore |
|
Blaming the brown of the sky and the ground |
|
You're so easily bored |
|
It's the force of the cold |
|
And the chances you've sold |
|
And I'm killing this time but it's not really mine |
|
Don't give the wide eyes and act like you don't know |
|
These small towns have ways of making you feel sorry |
|
Don't tell me, I know |
