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