Burn out the sun we’re all sold out of summer fun.
The sky above your head. Belongs to us your freedoms dead.
Blood stained finger tips, cracked skin I lost my grip and salt stained ears ring oil dipped angel wings.
Fill the world with store bought grief. Tag the hall with kerosene. Make the call to turn on me, to turn on me.
Vision wide prophets speak. Bleached soaked acid freak.
Locked away killing time, but you know it never dies.
Drag me through the mud. I’m all sold out of summer fun and shoes no longer fit.
I’m a burned out hypocrite.
Fill the world with store bought grief.
Tag the hall with kerosene. Make the call to turn on me, to turn on me.
Turn on me please. I’ll take the fall as you flee the scene.
So make the call to turn on me, to turn on me.
I’ll take the fall as you flee the scene.