Turn it down. Start it over. A loan is such an ugly gain. Pay it back. Pay it forward. Nothing means nothing to me.
So they went down to the station. They went lookin for a rhyme. They were runnin out of ink, they were runinn out of time. Yeah.
And with the color of the whistle, with the sounding of the smoke, I repeat it in a question. I repeat it in a joke. Yeah.
Loud clothes, quiet earrings. Black lights, white shadows. A bone and a key. Old flames and ex-widows. Someone’s been done to me.
So they believe that their conductor is the leader of the pack. Killing time and tune conducting and never lookin back. Yeah.
And the table had to chase it. And the time hopped the back. And a thanks to cut the cable. And they’re runnin out of tracks. Yeah.
So they kiss the farmers daughters with their pockets full of gold. And they draw the shades and lockets on the corner of the window. In a can under the kitchen in an unmarked grave. They’re uncovering the old.