Our days are numbered 6-6-6

and I'll begin the countdown by calling off the circus

somewhere in these cryptic scriptures



I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of

scars they cut into you

Blisters rose colored hue

mayday we're going down

These masculine memories are morose

Your kerosine company is comatose



Our days are numbered 3-2-1

And when you bit the bullet I held the smoking gun

Somewhere in these violent volumes



I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of

scars they cut into you

Blisters rose colored hue

mayday we're going down

These masculine memories are morose

Your kerosine company is comatose



And I would sick up half of my cold eye

to set you on your head

If I were you then I would memorize

this loose lipped lullaby insted of waiting

carving out your own



I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of

scars they cut into you

Blisters rose colored hue

mayday we're going down

These masculine memories are morose

Your kerosine company is comatose