Fold our sound. It’s in one ear and out the other. Self humiliation breaks its offer. Throw the towel when entering. Broken backs preserve equipment. Vocal sand emergency occupied by bolted arms. Point down until thumbs reach the ground. The sacrifice doesn’t quite match the reward. We grace the grave. We go in vain. We dust our threads off. Follow the patrons out the door because I myself can’t stand watching ourselves die for the promises that we had. Integral outing I couldn’t make because I had people to please. How was your weekend? How was the party? I’ll make it one of these days. Until then count me out. I’m pulling out of putting up with this shit. Is it too much to ask for one of these days to follow its script? If the palms of my hands meet will that be enough for someone to listen for a while?
Lyrics submitted by count orlock