And old man, a sensitive man, an intelligent man, an arrogant man, and every goddamn man in between.
All that they've seen, too much to drink, got nothing to think, and not much to dream; now that doesn't mean much of anything.
Remember that wanna be Indian jack he's a hell of a talker now, now that his teeth are falling out.
Well onto the floor, that's what's in store, nothing else more. Can't we explore a different route to find our way out?
And the dreams march around your brain like some gremlin parade and your eyes keep moving around.
Well one day I got nothing to say and the dogs will just play with your bones dragging em all over the ground.
And eventually the sparks disappear in your eyes and the past just turns to glass.
The chimney sweep is fast asleep, and I'll call the reports wrong, and the waves just wish you back.
Finally make it home in the blood blooming on your room in the position on this glove that you wrote.
On my own I'll make it home, On my own I'll make it home, On my own.
So we plan on just sinking in the sand, the shit hit the fan, howling is grand, (?)lots about when the world knows.
Well I hope it's exposed, nothing else grows, where the ears froze, everyone knows that it's supposed to go, well it just goes to show.
Remember that wanna be president son he's not much of a talker now, now who are you to judge?
Well I'm not gunna fuss, hanging up rugs, not stepping on bugs, just as everyone does. Well I guess it's good living one with the mud.
And the dreams drip down in your brain some selective cave, and your teeth keep moving around.
Well one day I have too much to say, but the cats will just play with your tongue over my toothless mouth.
Eventually the rocks turn back into the (?) and your mask back into weightless gas.
And I can't even see there's rows of trees that are not tall or a force at all but with paint we'll cover up all of that.
And you finally make it home figure out everything you own just exists as long as you'll ever call home, home.
Own my own, I'll make it home.
Eventually the sparks disappear in your eyes and the past just turns to glass.
The chimney sweep is fast asleep, and I'll call the reports wrong, and the waves just wish you back.
(On my own I'll make it home, On my own.)
Finally make it home the blood glowing of your room on the position of this glove that you wrote.