| Capistrano swallow, answer to your inner voice | |
| and please return, | |
| God installed that radar in your pointy little beak | |
| so you'd return. | |
| Epileptic surgeons with their eyes x'ed out | |
| attend to the torn up kid. | |
| salivate and reckon with all the sick things | |
| that you did. | |
| The secondary stumbles cause the cadence of the count | |
| has lead them astray, | |
| Pray their intuition leads them crashing into bodies | |
| in a perfect way. | |
| But I, I saw you reeling in a parking lot, | |
| I, I saw you rallying round a parking lot, | |
| Line up for the comfort and kick it on the bumper, | |
| Know (no?) there is no leeway | |
| you're standing on the freeway in love, | |
| Motion, you were destined for the paupers grave. | |
| Architecture students are like virgins | |
| with an itch they cannot scratch, | |
| Never build a building till you're 50 | |
| what kind of life is that? | |
| Stalled out on an escalator | |
| wishing which way to return up or down, | |
| My Palestinian nephew got his face blown off | |
| in a dusty craft. |