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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