Texty: Weakerthans. Reconstruction Site. Benediction.

So you don't get to be a saint.
Martyrs never last this long.
Guess I'll never be the one to defeat desire in this song.
Here's a marker, here's my naked skin,
Our Exhibit A.
Put a small x where I lost my way.
All the actors broke their legs, and it's too late to postpone.
The producer's getting high, and the audience went home.
Smile and take your awkward bow, turn and stubble off the stage.
Let the rain be your applause, every encore soothe your rage.
Squint with on eye, hum a show-tune, and wait for your ride to say
"Oh, that's where you must have lost your way.
Megaphones in helicopters squeal, "Hey are you okay?"
as searchlights circle where we lost our way.
All our accidents went purposeful and fell,
stripped of providence or any way to tell
that our intentions were intangible and sweet.
Sick with simple math and shy discoveries,
piled up against our impending defeat