With these constant dreams of falling,
I hear you've found your calling.
Dirty fingers make you hip like them,
eat their fruit off of their stem.
We're dancing on lumber, one-two-turn,
the radio tells me that I should burn.
You'd laugh at the notion, spare me the time,
an hour's a nickel, a day is a dime.
The ink's in your mouth, you're ready to talk,
and once these eyes bleed, I'll take a blind man's walk.
The snakes on your skin smile,
the poison they spit is too vile.
I can't carve this mask out of air,
so give me some effort, an infant of care.
And if fog is a heavy cloud,
bear your burden and please your crowd.
Battery acid in Peter's lake,
I'm going for a swim until I'm awake.
Let physics do its magic, I'll watch from here-
What a queer year on this sphere.
