| Thought I saw you at the finish line and you were burning a flag
|
| and you were biding your time
|
| Thought I saw you at the finish line and you were burning a flag
|
| and you were biding your time
|
| and you were biding your time and you were biding your time
|
| Tripped on my compass as I fled on foot
|
| Shed all my luggage, all your fuck-me-boots
|
| Cute as a button on a wounded high horse
|
| Sink into the quicksand of desire and remorse
|
| Pissed off and juiced up, with my back to the wall
|
| Blindfolded, eager to give into the fall
|
| Stripped of the structures that boggled my mind
|
| Sink into the quicksand, making up for lost time
|
| Serenading in the trenches
|
| Do you wanna pretend we’re dead
|
| Serenading in the trenches
|
| Do you wanna make love instead
|
| Cute-ass casualties, clueless come-ons
|
| Our aborted mission, our self-indulgence
|
| Bled out from paper cuts all over the news
|
| Softened the bruises with a one-sided truce
|
| Stripped of our passions, in a lukewarm embrace
|
| Sink into the quicksand of stale dignity and grace
|
| Keep it up, keep on, try keeping up with myself
|
| Old ideas, splinters, put that shit on the shelf
|
| Slumbering limbo, laurels resting on me
|
| Sink into the quicksand of a ruthless memory
|
| Serenading in the trenches
|
| Do you wanna pretend we’re dead
|
| Serenading in the trenches
|
| Do you wanna make love instead
|
| Cute-ass casualties, uh, clueless come-ons
|
| Our aborted mission, our self-indulgence
|
| Oh what a beautiful boy child
|
| Oh boy, the man of my dreams
|
| Oh what a big boy, what a boy child
|
| Oh man, oh boy, what a dream
|
| Oh boy, you’re preaching to the wrong choir
|
| I know what’s up, my time is up
|
| I know what’s up, my time is up |