you're biting the ice spiced summer with the 'summer-time top-down'
filling fool's gold, truth undiscovered in the underfed crop, now.
gripping the sticks of the crypt that lifted your lips with a string.
slipping to drinks, it's sick thinking, but you could still sing.
you don't know me, and this is all an act.
searching for you in the refunds of my taxed back.
checking the mail, set getting sales, saving to inhale your own gravestone
write on mine the times i was alive
collecting unsent texts from my paid phone.
i do love you, and i shouldn't have to prove that.
'should' never could've understood the loving movement in your tact.
your sense of humor keeps me happy,
your sense of humor is in my name.
it's in my name.
"so get on up, and come along. put in works and write your song. build a house and come along. just get on up
and come along"