| With my back on the floor
|
| Cold linoleum icing my growing pains
|
| Watch the ceiling fan turn its shape again
|
| My threads are coming loose
|
| Yeah, I’m one spoon away
|
| From setting the ends of my hair on fire
|
| If I’m kindling for a little while
|
| At least I’d feel of use
|
| Maybe then my breath could embody
|
| A wildfire starting
|
| I’d sweep up the forest floor
|
| And my body breathe life into the corners
|
| Be a darker soil
|
| Making lists, folding laundry
|
| Keeping tidy with my radio show
|
| I’d be lying if I told you
|
| I’m keeping tidy anymore
|
| Yeah, I swing from believing
|
| That maybe my working will all pay off
|
| To considering drinking with Molotov
|
| I’m halfway out the door
|
| Maybe then my brath could embody
|
| A wildfire starting
|
| I’d sweep up the forst floor
|
| And my body breathe life into the corners
|
| Be a darker soil
|
| Promise me, that you’ll start where I end
|
| And I promise to give you everything that I am
|
| (We'll go on and on and on)
|
| We’ll go on and on and on
|
| In the end all I hope for
|
| Is to be a bit of warmth for you
|
| When there’s not a lot of warmth left
|
| To go around |