Throw me a song
A simple line that I can hang my head on
It's getting light out and I don't belong
To the smoke machine and the hangers-on
Now I see them and now I don't know if
I have the patience of a zoo animal
Getting high with everyone in my reach
Whatever comedy they came here to see
We let the bombs fall down
On another town
Bruised up little boys, falling for their vices
Slapping gloves in faces
And like a dog chained to the bike stand
As the sliding doors are closing
I'm hoping for the best
Da da da
Tinfoil lips, married to the kind of monster
We have to listen to in waiting rooms
Songs of Spanish leather
We sing of it like they talk about the weather
Da da da, da da da
Da da da, da da da
It can only get better