the sun`s a strange light nothing grows right anymore scars on every stalk whose mouth should i use to talk? the force that marks the routine temperature whatever degrees create the bad thing and lay our heads in it now it`s hard to punch the clock on the site where production stopped i`m just a warehouse filled with junk some somethings for some someones tacking time with tracking eye tectonic shifts one nerve at a time i lay my head in it a hundred plans to fortify beige concrete foes on for miles hiding cities under it fill my mouth with with non-mouth spit there was a light at the window there was light under the door but it`s not there anymore (come on over get your shoes on put your feet on baby come on over)
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