Lyrics Heat Wave - Algebra Suicide

Heat Wave

Sunday is a killer.
I want a festive time, a darling illness
Hands playing staccato violin, while the theme from Psycho fills the room
Instead, the day’s as vacant as an infant’s dumb stare
In Mexico, the toreadors are having their day, torturing bulls that would
rather be sleeping
But here, the only things being tortured are the lawns, wet down by their owners
'Til soggy and numb.
Yesterday, while shopping, I saw three men on crutches
Buying galoshes for the women they loved
But today the only thing I hear are the ethnics outside
They’re walking to church to bless baskets of eggs
Immobile things that will smell bad with time in this heat, this humidity
That has closed down even the stripper joints
It’s sad to consider how much sweat is wasted today, produced by our own simple
breathing
Even sadder is when the night turns so arid
Nothing can shimmy.
Nothing can dance