look through the wind
of this mysterious town,
somewhere south of south
where spinach wilts.
I still can't believe
I get paid to tell stories
and I have never met a stone
worse than me.
here one minutes,
gone the next heavy night,
spinning wild wheels
trying to keep something.
time is acting weird lately,
like a girl that doesn't like me anymore,
but doesn't know how to end it,
and I can only imagine how she feels.
burn a few good drunks
before saying bye to no one again,
ruined by bragging lonesome,
lovers arms I do believe are gone.