| Getting through winter
|
| Is taking forever
|
| I’m trying to figure
|
| Which one your breath or toes smell yeast
|
| Maybe it’s jibber
|
| Maybe the Eels left dreams on my tongue
|
| Sick little bird
|
| I think I heard
|
| You soiling a number with dark pointy turds
|
| We’re drawing old patterns in chain
|
| It’s slicing the butter real thin
|
| You can’t keep it longer within no talk to me walk with me
|
| After all we’ve been through
|
| This crap isn’t new
|
| Monsters and cycles
|
| Constantly glued
|
| Hold on to my words, no doubts occure, it’s needless to say but
|
| You’re all my world
|
| All my world, all of my world
|
| Battling a thick blur
|
| D’you see land? |
| No sir
|
| It never occurred
|
| To us we’d stay at sea so long
|
| Maybe its idle
|
| Maybe its meant to blow apart
|
| I blow my nose
|
| And check from real close
|
| Ma quality buggors are telling me no
|
| We’re drawing old patterns in chain
|
| It’s slicing the butter real thin
|
| You can’t keep it longer within, no talk to me, walk with me
|
| After all we’ve been through
|
| This crap isn’t new
|
| Monsters and cycles
|
| Constantly glued
|
| Hold on to my words, no doubts occure, it’s needless to say but
|
| You’re all my world
|
| All my world, all of my world
|
| All of my world, my world, my world |