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