| Another stain, wipes, over the face
|
| Of an entire, clutch, of reasonable guys
|
| I flip a coin, seems, the luck has run out
|
| It’s 2:40 and the clocks are wrong
|
| Another stain, matched, by the reward
|
| Another work, made, to show off the pose
|
| Another way, stop, and show some respect
|
| For those trying and abandoning
|
| I want something that, something that I can’t see
|
| Through the prism of stigmatism
|
| With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure
|
| Feed the kids, the E numbers
|
| Feed the kids, the newscasters
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| She seemed to know how twisted is this
|
| My back is ricked, spiked, down to the spine
|
| Lie flat on floors, with vertebrae down
|
| Pitch perfect like a slamming door
|
| But when it comes I’ll be prepared
|
| This off course rain jostling down
|
| Blaming the mind, or, anything close
|
| You can’t put it on forgetfulness, so
|
| I want something that, something that I can’t see
|
| Through the prism of stigmatism
|
| With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure
|
| Feed the kids, the E numbers
|
| Feed the kids, the newscasters
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Zoom out at speeds with sharp intakes of breath
|
| Heads spinning up in the corners
|
| Closer than it even began
|
| I want something that, something that I can’t see
|
| Through the prism of stigmatism
|
| With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure
|
| Feed the kids, the E numbers
|
| Feed the kids, the newscasters
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go
|
| Where do our tantrums go |