the sun's a strange light nothing grows right anymore

scars on every stalk

whose mouth should i use to talk?

the force that marks the routine

temperature whatever degrees create the bad thing

and lay our heads in it now

it's hard to punch the clock on the site where production stopped

i'm just a warehouse filled with junk

some somethings for some someones tacking

time with tracking eye tectonic shifts one nerve at a time

i lay my head in it a hundred plans to fortify beige concrete foes on for miles

hiding cities under it fill my mouth with with non-mouth spit there was a light at

the window there was light under the door but it's not there anymore

(come on over get your shoes on put your feet on baby come on over)


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