Texty: Dear and the Headlights. Drunk Like the Bible Times. Talk About.
You're like a constant crowding consonant
I'm a claustrophobic; I, I said
We're as comfortable as wool warming naked indifference
Thank God your words have come to rescue me from my sentence
You're like a two stepping tongue on a flesh dance floor
You're the eulogy I can't avoid anymore
That tumor in my side celebrating malignance:
"Surprise! I'm moving in; I think I've grown on your parents"
You want to talk about all the feeling I'm feeling
I'm a passed out priest in an AA meeting
And they're checking my pulse, trying to make a decision
I've got those rolled back eyes but nothing's clouding my vision
You're like a knock at the door in the middle of dinner
From the friendly registered sex offender
All equipped with a mustache and a windowless van
You're telling me how much you've changed
I'm trying to hide the crayons and no you can't come in
I'm like your neighbor's hands on your father's throat:
"Sweetie, you go back inside, see this is just for adults"
So adult is what we'll be, domestic violence in denim
Each tumble down the stairs appeals your puff paint addendum
You say I'm your backpack caught on a chain link fence
But dear I'm a thank you card in the future tense
I'm jumping out of cakes serving divorce papers
I'd say I love you too but I'm all out of favors
You want to talk about all the feelings I'm feeling
Like your chalkboard wrists but I don't tally the meaning
You keep forgetting the plot, let alone the long sleeps
My eyes, they only know three words and each is pronounced "Please!?"
And I would walk you home if I could find my crutches
Probably listen more if you didn't talk so much
Why don't you show yourself out
How can you cry now, this whole thing's been such a drought! Alright!
You want to talk about all the feelings I'm feeling
You're a phone call home after eight long seasons
There's a mail order bride and a baby that's teething
Said the smog, it hurts your eyes, so on the next train you're leaving
I'm not certain it's the smog, more just the constant grieving
But first you're dropping off the kid, sticking me with the feeding
I said, oh God damn it you're so mean
You say I'll lose the Christian crowd if I say things like these
But I've already lost them, I couldn't care less
I guess my path, it just got wide, so I'll just wish you all my narrow best
I guess that's it
I'm a claustrophobic; I, I said
We're as comfortable as wool warming naked indifference
Thank God your words have come to rescue me from my sentence
You're like a two stepping tongue on a flesh dance floor
You're the eulogy I can't avoid anymore
That tumor in my side celebrating malignance:
"Surprise! I'm moving in; I think I've grown on your parents"
You want to talk about all the feeling I'm feeling
I'm a passed out priest in an AA meeting
And they're checking my pulse, trying to make a decision
I've got those rolled back eyes but nothing's clouding my vision
You're like a knock at the door in the middle of dinner
From the friendly registered sex offender
All equipped with a mustache and a windowless van
You're telling me how much you've changed
I'm trying to hide the crayons and no you can't come in
I'm like your neighbor's hands on your father's throat:
"Sweetie, you go back inside, see this is just for adults"
So adult is what we'll be, domestic violence in denim
Each tumble down the stairs appeals your puff paint addendum
You say I'm your backpack caught on a chain link fence
But dear I'm a thank you card in the future tense
I'm jumping out of cakes serving divorce papers
I'd say I love you too but I'm all out of favors
You want to talk about all the feelings I'm feeling
Like your chalkboard wrists but I don't tally the meaning
You keep forgetting the plot, let alone the long sleeps
My eyes, they only know three words and each is pronounced "Please!?"
And I would walk you home if I could find my crutches
Probably listen more if you didn't talk so much
Why don't you show yourself out
How can you cry now, this whole thing's been such a drought! Alright!
You want to talk about all the feelings I'm feeling
You're a phone call home after eight long seasons
There's a mail order bride and a baby that's teething
Said the smog, it hurts your eyes, so on the next train you're leaving
I'm not certain it's the smog, more just the constant grieving
But first you're dropping off the kid, sticking me with the feeding
I said, oh God damn it you're so mean
You say I'll lose the Christian crowd if I say things like these
But I've already lost them, I couldn't care less
I guess my path, it just got wide, so I'll just wish you all my narrow best
I guess that's it
Drunk Like the Bible Times
Dear and the Headlights
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