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Three Lyrics
When the pen's left dry,
Your visa card expired.
A sympathetic witness with a kindly disposition won't save you all.
I read it in the magazine that nothing else will change.
Shut your face, shut your face,
Backtrack markings, modern dates.
Figure 8s, falling suns, cutting pasting local rapes.
"I've grace", "fuck that grace: you're the artist, not the slave."
Murder can be law.
But don't forget the hype,
The endless reels of numbers.
A syncopatic now asphixiated common logic won't save you all.
I read it in the magazine that nothing else will change.
It all occured to me, the ease of being this free.
Close your eyes, become blind: leave or wait, your heart wakes.
Your visa card expired.
I read it in the magazine that nothing else will change.
Backtrack markings, modern dates.
Figure 8s, falling suns, cutting pasting local rapes.
"I've grace", "fuck that grace: you're the artist, not the slave."
Murder can be law.
The endless reels of numbers.
I read it in the magazine that nothing else will change.
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