Walk you to the funeral parlor, tripped it off and down the steeple. Walk to down the center staple, dancing on the side-stepped patterns And who doesn’t love the look of a sad look, etched across a silk screened ceiling Melted to some hipster fucker, writing, screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming.
Crossed it off and then went backwards, fell off of the useless patterns You’ll disconnect and then I’ll call you, writing off the empty bottles
Letting out the thought that must be ringing out the most obvious You half expected the practiced looks, but then you still looked so annoyed.
And who doesn’t love the distant feeling, Writhing in a useless circle The bitter smell of flowers now that sex has become such a mood swing.
Write it down to the stereo parlor, feel the Xed out eyes and shifting Write off the center staple, hipster fuckers prance about.