Lawrence Arms Eighteen Inches Letras:
face down on the ground. stormclouds lie in white
snowpiles all around. i don't know if i can make
it throughone more winter in this town. voted
worst in show the last two years. i got a refill
on my tears-another bottle of foam yellowed clear.
the old man twitching on the train reminds us of
mortalitly, the snow everywhre reminds us of the
rain. and my burned and brittle skin, cracked and
blistered in the wind is testament to repetition
as the impossible happens again. q: so, what's
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your new years revolution? a: take off those ten
unsightly pounds. the snow is piling higher and
your face is growing closer to the ground. raising
your glass at the office party or photocopying
your secretary's ass is no less pathetic than our
self righteously self important tasks of barfing
rhetoric on shiny table tops as our collars and
turtlenecks choke us right there in the coffee
shops. winter will not wait for you. ironically,
your worst dream has come true: pontification
means nothing when i woke up and looked around, i
foun that my dreams had melted into dirty puddles
on the ground
Letras: Eighteen Inches Lawrence Arms [final]