| From hand to heart and hands to head
|
| These gritty teeth grind gears of infrared
|
| He crash lands in dull white noise
|
| All I hear is static in his voice
|
| When those sweet red hands
|
| Start their whirlwinds
|
| And you’re the drain
|
| You’re imagining things
|
| Your pretend machine
|
| Has sticks in its every spoke
|
| You’re inventing it all
|
| From thin air and close calls
|
| Welcome to the balancing act
|
| Your rabbit’s foot is hare and hounds
|
| And I drag pianos, eyes glued to the ground
|
| When he dialed 911
|
| Busy signals sang familiar songs
|
| Those sweet red hands
|
| Start their whirlwinds
|
| And you’re the plane
|
| You’re imagining things
|
| Your pretend machine
|
| Has sticks in its every spoke
|
| You’re inventing it all
|
| From thin air and close calls
|
| If we bought the stock we’d be broke
|
| You taught us to claw
|
| Put us through your speech
|
| If I’m a red anchor
|
| Then you’re coming with me
|
| And on the way down
|
| We can sleep with the fish
|
| As we go into the blue
|
| We can both reminisce
|
| And you better hide
|
| Or learn how to climb
|
| 'cause you’re coming with me
|
| And on the way down
|
| You will sleep with the fish
|
| 'cause you’re coming with me
|
| You’re imagining things
|
| Your pretend machine
|
| Has sticks in its every spoke
|
| You’re inventing it all
|
| From thin air and close calls
|
| Welcome to the balancing act |