| I"m leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Only certain kinds of people
|
| Can take these things
|
| Get up in the morning
|
| I"m paying my bills
|
| Watching a storm cloud form over the hills
|
| It appears I was waiting for my old self
|
| I don"t know what I"m made of Or where from I came
|
| Don"t even seem to remember my name
|
| Or why the ghost"s alive in this cave
|
| They say she"s on the run
|
| It"s over, it"s over, it"s over, it"s over
|
| And thought then can turn action
|
| And I dig and I dig and I dig and I dig
|
| «Til my head is so sick and so clear
|
| I"m leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Only certain kinds of people
|
| Can take these things
|
| I"m tired and lost and feeling blown
|
| Running around in a field, just out of my skull
|
| How will I ever find my way home?
|
| Get up in the morning
|
| I"m paying my bills
|
| Watching a storm cloud form over the hills
|
| It appears I was talking to my own self
|
| They say she"s on the run
|
| It"s over, it"s over, it"s over, it"s over
|
| Then thought turns into action
|
| And I dig, and I dig
|
| , and I dig, and I dig
|
| «Til my head is so sick and so clear
|
| I"m leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Leaving here
|
| Getting out of this place
|
| Only certain kinds of people
|
| Can take these things
|
| I"m tired and lost and feeling blown
|
| Running around in a field, just out of my skull
|
| How will I ever find my way home?
|
| How will I ever find my way home? |