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Lyrics
Underneathe what's beating slimy green, Saint Laurence built in the safe of these. No intelligent thing left to say. Oh what's done and bid them wash away. Load a cycle nineteen fifty-three, yellow mounting carpet indian cheif. Rusted in then old bent dumpy shed. Pushed the wheel barrel over the tire tred. And I was like, "Oh my god, is this actually happening to me?" Off of the side of the road you looked over cautiously. Rolled down the window, said you look like a girl I used to know. Why don't we leave this town together wherever the wind blows? Through the deaf fields in Columbia, had to hitchhike back to Montezuma. Ended up in some place far away, cowboy boots till don a switch blade. Seven seventy BMW. Series deep that goes a hundred and two. Sittin on the leather worn and torn, muddy boot prints cover up the floor. And I was like, "Oh my god, is this actually happening to me?" Off of the side of the road you looked over cautiously. Rolled down the window, said you look like a girl I used to know. Why don't we leave this town together wherever the wind blows? Look at the posters that are on the wall. Michael Jordan standing six feet tall. It's in your closet or behind your bed. No feel if feel the sense of bloody red. Like wind, my friend.
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