Struck Matches

Struck matches filling corners of a window sill
Born camp with the sickness leaning perfectly still
Against a dead moon kill
Bound by the desires that I feel along the way of the great big hell

Now I seen you talk down from a borrowed throne
Oh if you had a nickel for every chance that you’d blown
You’d set out for a week on the sea for a leaving
fresh company

I like to imagine a killing spree
Where every victim is me and all the jokers you see
on the screens the machines they’re reviving the scenes and the means for you
many fabric conflicts

I see a walking disaster
Only just fade away
I see a walking disaster
What’s he going to have to say?
What’s he going to have to say?

Built you a filter that you keep in your room
under a box or a mattress with a golden spoon
You press holes in your gloom and breathe in all the fumes
Getting deeply in tune and waiting the next wave of attack

Now you’re digging in the icebox for something to have
wrapped in tin foil and shoved way in the back
sits a memory of ten dozen laughs
Somebody’s suggesting you got the kind of hunger that you just can’t feed

I like coffee and you like tea
We want to make a little money but you can’t sell me
There ain’t nothing free that can cause somebody something but we
we all already all knew that

I see a walking disaster
Only just fade away
Lookie here a walking disaster
What’s he going to have to say?
What’s he going to have to say?
What’s he going to have to say?
What’s he going to have to say?