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When every little thing |
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You own is looking back |
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At you and starts to mean |
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Less than it ever did, |
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|
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On every, |
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On every inch of stone, |
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Skin and cloth |
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Made to leave you |
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|
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Here you are you are breathing life into |
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Ghost under rocks like notes found |
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In pocket coats of your fathers, |
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Lost and forgotten, |
|
|
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All all all your soaking wet dreams |
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You've spent them, |
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You have gone and dreamt them |
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Dry, now you ask your babies why, why, why |
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|
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We're gripping seats and plots, |
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Pleading to honored lots |
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To give us this much more, |
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Safe from a cutting shear |
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|
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On every, |
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On every inch of stone, |
|
Skin and cloth |
|
Made to leave you |
|
|
|
Here you are you are breathing life into |
|
Ghosts under rocks like notes found |
|
In pocket coats of your fathers |
|
Lost and forgotten |
|
|
|
All all all your soaking wet dreams |
|
You've spent them |
|
You have gone and dreamt them |
|
Dry, now you ask your babies why, why, why |
|
|
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Well if you can't decide |
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Whether you either weep or moan |
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You waste a year to mull this through |
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Anyway you wanted to |
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|
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Oh but you could have had |
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Turn it into broken good |
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Taken off the side of it |
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A cut up and a parasol |
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A pair of them you found along |
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Maybe never to again |
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As if it never was at all, |
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Lifting you up as an offer |
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Up as an offer |
|
|
|
Here you are you are breathing life into |
|
Ghost under rocks like notes found |
|
In pocket coats of your fathers |
|
Lost and forgotten, |
|
|
|
All all all your soaking wet dreams, |
|
You've spent them |
|
You have gone and dreamt them |
|
Dry, now you ask your babies why, why, why |
