he wrote it with a crabbed hand an ageless plastic poem but no one needs to read it it's nothing we don't already know
cause we're out dragging the river trying to find something missing but everyone we know is here and nothing that we have is gone
i think i'm through with the fighting chopped off my heavy, heavy hands i see the blue spot fading keep it down, keep it down, i'm caught in my own net. i think i'm through with the fighting two turns away from turning blue you can watch if you want to.
they said he's just a crusty addict lurking in dusty attics and tapping on your pipes at night. the sounds are pretty though a pickled caterpillar sleeping salty in his pocket not everything he has is here but no one he wants is gone