the sun's a strange light
nothing grows right anymore
scars on every stalk
whose mouth 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 [bad word] on over
get your shoes on
put your feet on [bad word] on over)

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