Under the grey bearded saint from the huts,
washed up schemes they make and fall.
Silly, quirky lifeless things.

27 dead today
because of one man's pride.

I wonder if it'll slip from my teeth,
how the arena couldn't save my soul
or any more bladders at a security fest.

If I can keep the boats at bay,
behind my teeth; a secret bother.
If I may just show restraint but

27 dead today
because of some worry or another.

Down at the mines we try to collapse,
we try to stay delusional,
we love our leader so much that
I must keep the boats at bay,

but twenty something dead today
and the wales on my tongue
(embroiled by incisors)
are no longer held.

Under the grey bearded apathy,
our closets become too full
with our boats in the mud
we start to dig and sing in lull.

How's the spring look like around here?
Red, red and charred?
Or are there any other colors?
Last edited by ali.guitarkid7 at Mar 17, 2012,