|
I been lookin' around at abandoned cars on the side of the highway |
|
Askin' myself are they a metaphor of the lack of drive, or dead battery eyes? |
|
You gotta' scream to get your point across, that's our way |
|
You gotta' scratch the skin with the youngest cut, it'll be okay |
|
Too many nights, in the |
|
Greyhound station up |
|
North Syracuse |
|
And the departure screen, lookin' at me like it was talkin' shit just as |
|
I walked in |
|
Too much debt, pride, and seinging mood through |
|
American veins |
|
The confidence of twenty fools with equal parts shame |
|
Yeah, we were playing dead, (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
Wanna' break my jaw, maybe break the bread (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
Can't leave or stay, sitting on the steps (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
It's no surprise |
|
I hear religion on the radio |
|
We can't find any other signal |
|
Slow, that's is how it'll go when you're buildin' somethin' that's worth the build |
|
But keeping in mind why you started to climb, it gets harder with height |
|
Don't you think of starting over now, what a waste |
|
The guy in your head and the one in the mirror got a different face |
|
Yeah, we were playing dead, (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
Wanna' break my jaw, maybe break the bread (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
Can't leave or stay, sitting on the steps (Ah-ah-ah) |
|
It's no surprise |
|
I hear religion on the radio |
|
We can't find any other signal |
|
Woa-oh-ho-oh-oh! |
|
Are you gonna' break down the wall |
|
Playin' with a red rubber ball |
|
Pick the hammer up, turn me all to dust |
|
Break down the wall |
|
Playin' with the red rubber ball |
|
Pick the hammer up |
|
Turn me all to dust |
|
Woah, woa-oh, woah-oh-oh-oh! (Turn me all to dust) |
|
Woah, woa-oh, woah-oh-oh-oh! |
