to give a slow
sorrowful reading
a few brass coins
clutched in my bony fists
gathered together
in one room
for the first time
born three years ahead of time
nineteen seventy-nine
throwing shoes at passing cars
fitting initiation
attacked your books with a knife
convincing me you have
nothing to say
the smell of your own work
is the smell of death


Lyrics submitted by omgwtfbrand0

Is Subjective song meanings
Add your thoughts

1 Comment

sort form View by:

Add your thoughts

Log in now to tell us what you think this song means.

Don’t have an account? Create an account with SongMeanings to post comments, submit lyrics, and more. It’s super easy, we promise!

Back to top
explain