Red letters on the dashboard, oh what a GAP They pursue us to the deep end and then depart Watch as the cracks in the wall feel pain For only patterns on a snake's back give us genuine fear
And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire I get by all the time on a shelf above the door And it shouldn't be clear but it's not for me to decide It's a delicate degree It's a number I can see
Could prison cells be in my brain For they're safe inside the cover of a dirty face And everybody finds a college graduate with joy While I'm happy just sipping tonic water with lemon and lime
And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire I get by all the time on a shelf above the door And it shouldn't be clear but it's not for me to decide It's a delicate degree It's a number I can see
You sit at home up late at night When it's beginning to arrive And honestly I don't see the need for any routines I'm all out of sink, I cover my cuts And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again
And all this ground beneath my feet Has decided not to crumble into the sea I walked in a house, it smelt of paint And the ceiling it has no trouble with me
Compositores: William David South, Brendon Arthur James, Wilson Adam Michael (Adam Wilson), Thomas William George Welham ECAD: Obra #3584320