| I can’t think
|
| Someone’s sitting right in front of me
|
| I need my personal space
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright
|
| I write songs, keeping my fingers crossed
|
| They’ll get me out of this place
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright
|
| Flicking gasoline onto the walls and the floor
|
| Holding two lit sirens, but I’m looking for more
|
| I’ve got a spike I’m placing, five cans of mace
|
| For some reefah to hold in my hand
|
| Oh the local newsroom puts on funny things
|
| I remember a story about a family tree
|
| But I can’t recall just how that story ends
|
| But I can pretend, pretend, pretend
|
| I can’t think
|
| Someone’s sitting right in front of me
|
| I need my personal space
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright
|
| I write songs, keeping my fingers crossed
|
| They’ll get me out of this place
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright
|
| I can’t think
|
| Someone’s sitting right in front of me
|
| I need my personal space
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright
|
| I write songs, keeping my fingers crossed
|
| They’ll get me out of this place
|
| Alright, alright, alright, alright |