you made a grave out of an electric box
nobody came, you could not make a pay with rocks
my feet make holes in the shape of a clock
i can't get off mountains no matter how i walk
we're made to talk, our words made to rhyme
feel out of body, this song feels out of time
the plants get mowed, and we do it so slow
the things that grow, they all do so so slowly
all the angels gather round, giving them the perfect view
when they look down through the clouds at the ground and
they talk shit on you
Track Name: Fruit-Fly to a Friend
you left a message saying, "i'm running away"
you're just running lines off of the page, OK?
you're turning around you: forgot your shoes
oh shit no shit, our feet, they're making circles anyway
back 1 back 2 back 3456789 times
are you open on the weekends and the rest of the weeknights?
are you open on the weekends and all the weeknights?
all the broke moths eating dinner in the back of your best suit
and all of the fruit flies, they've gone, you've eaten all your fruit
but when they left, they whispered in my ear, "we'll be back when you clean up your act"
Track Name: Surgeon General's Warning
i don't smoke but i'm choking--probably on all of my joking
i don't smoke but i'm looking at the packs of cigarettes
trying to figure out the difference between all the people i have met
i don't drink but i'm sitting on the broken seats in the broke down bars
trying to figure out the difference between our sun and the rest of all the other bigger stars