Can I tell you the truth?
You are not the bruise you've worn
Your problem is it's never too late
To sit lonely and comfortably
So you carry yourself through the spring
Like a broken machine
A tolling bell that you cannot hold back
I walked you home, but you
Hit me in the side of the head with a shovel and
Your problem is your flesh is too thin
And you do not have any friends
You do not have any friends.
Sleeping off the cigarette glow,
As you select your seasonal decision diodes
You followed me home, and you said:
"Please just give up, give up. There's nothing we can do here
For your heart, though we're the force that's held your head."