The master painters all look ashamed
They don’t know the thrill of a jukebox fade
Church bells ringing [bad word] for Jesus
The future ex-girlfriends all promise to leave us

I dreamt of this well
Bringing you back to live in burnt out motels
It’s my junk mail dream to turn this car around
And drive back down to where my body was found
They say I was focused on slowing down time
Hands inside the clock when I was hit from behind

There’s a possibility
This predictability
Will eventually grow wild and bend
Then I’ll know
I never meant to meet you
But that’s what the sequence puts you through

Curse this mind control
Making me leak these ideas so very slow
I’m an excerpt of an abridged serial
You never had a job so menial
To keep track of track of distractions that impede my path
And pinpoint their origin and slice them in half

But there’s a possibility
This predictability
Will eventually grow wild and bend
For better or worse
I never called the cab a hearse
I answered questions with a pause
And tried to break what you defend
But ended up drifting far from shore
Washed up in some foreign land
And tried to find a way back home
But when I did you [bad word] and said
Here’s where the echo sequence ends

The master painters all look ashamed
They don’t know the thrill of a jukebox fade