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)