(RIFF)
A D
Excuses pour out so easily and I've never had a trouble
with the frequency.
A
But it needs a mate to calm me down,
D A D A
postcards and phones calls to a long distance small town.
(RIFF)
A
And I've never been good with secrets to keep,
D
but I can lie white, right through my teeth.
A D
That current takes us, and we breathe it in.
A D
Mistakes in old friends to a short coming, quick end.
A A
An empty-eyed blank stare at an atlas,
D A D
I'm lost without a map or compass.
A D
And I revise and I rewrite.
A D A D
I'm drowning in long nights, late drives with old ghosts,
D
I'm an index of footnotes.
A D
And I'm sick, sick, sick of my complaining, that rhetoric
that I've been writing.
A D
That blood red bled from ink to pen, I'm blue/black
backwards, I am paper thin.
(RIFF plays softer towards the end)