| And we take sour sips from life’s lush lips
|
| And we shake, shake, shake the hips in relationships
|
| Stomp out this disaster town
|
| You’ll put your eyes to the sun and say «I know
|
| You’re only blinding to keep back what the clouds are hiding»
|
| And we might have started singing just a little soon
|
| We’re throwing stones at a glass moon
|
| Whoa, we’re so miserable and stunning
|
| Whoa, songs for the genuinely cunning
|
| And we keep the beat
|
| With your blistered feet
|
| We bullet the words at the mockingbirds, singing
|
| Slept through the weekend, and dreaming
|
| of sinking with the melody of the cliffs of eternity
|
| Got postcards from my former selves saying «How you been?»
|
| We might of said goodbyes just a little soon
|
| (Stomp out of this disaster town)
|
| Robbing Lips, kissing banks
|
| Under this moon
|
| Whoa, we’re so miserable and stunning
|
| Whoa, songs for the genuinely cunning
|
| Whoa, we’re so miserable and stunning
|
| Whoa, songs for the genuinely cunning
|
| It was icecream headaches and sweet avalanche
|
| When the pearls in our shells got up to dance
|
| You call me a bad tipper of the cradle
|
| But I’m just tired yawns for fawns on hunters lawns
|
| We’re the has_beens of husbands- sharpening the knives of young wives.
|
| Take two years and call me when you’re better…
|
| Take tears of mine and find yourself wetter
|
| Whoa, we’re so miserable and stunning
|
| Whoa, songs for the genuinely cunning
|
| Whoa, we’re so miserable and stunning,
|
| Whoa, songs for the genuinely cunning |