| Your skin’s in my mouth, |
| but I’m thinkin' about |
| thousands of things |
| That don’t got your name. |
| So, I’m distant and weird; |
| we stop and you’re all ears. |
| But how can I say, |
| «I've just been thinking how it’s harder every year |
| to find excuses that’ll keep me in the clear; |
| the arbitrary lines I impress in the sand, |
| the proof that piles in my trash can |
| while the skin on my hands is looking older every day. |
| The lies I’ve told have turned to leather on my face. |
| The love I’ve lost has turned to needles in my heart. |
| But I’m to blame for all the bad parts. |
| They’re the choices I’ve made, hey hey.» |
| That’s when I turn my face away, |
| and I watch the debates. Now, I can’t see see straight |
| Take abortion away, and both sides are just the same, |
| so I’m not sure why I vote, |
| 'cause I just don’t know |
| what difference it makes. |
| It seems to me we get the same shit from them both. |
| Reform don’t work; I think it’s time we tried revolt, |
| but I don’t got the guts to jump up and go first, |
| so I just shout until my throat hurts, |
| and I curse and I curse |
| at what we fucked up in Iraq. |
| You say support the troops; I do. |
| I want them all brought back, |
| and every building that you bombed raised from the ground. |
| And pull your contractors the fuck out. |
| If you really go and reinstate the draft, |
| you’ll straight away just split the country straight in half, |
| so try arresting everyone who sends their draft cards back. |
| I’ll be returning mine in no time flat. |
| In a sense we’re the same, |
| struggling to save face. |
| It’s a question of scope: |
| how far you’re willing to go |
| to make rights of your wrongs, |
| despite the risk involved. |
| It’s a question of faith, |
| 'Cause if we wait until we’ve all been burned to ash |
| to tell the truth about the shit buried in our past, |
| we’ll split a taxi to that firepit way down south. |
| So, let’s rise up and open our mouths. |
| 'Cause you remind me that it’s harder every year |
| to find excuses that’ll keep me in the clear; |
| the arbitrary lines I impress in the sand, |
| the proof that piles in my trash can. |
| And if you really go and reinstate the draft, |
| you’ll straight away just split the country straight in half, |
| so try arresting everyone who sends their draft cards back. |
| I’ll be returning mine in no time flat. |