The sun's a strange light
nothing grows right anymore
scars on every stalk
whose mouth should i use to talk?
The force that marks the routine
temperature, whatever degrees
create the bad thing
and lay our heads in it
Now it's hard to punch the clock
on a site where production's stopped
i'm just a warehouse filled with junk
some somethings for some someones
Tasking time with tracking eye
tectonic shifts one nerve at a time
i lay my head in it
A hundred plans to foritfy
beige concrete goes on for miles
hiding cities under it
fill my mouth with non-mouth spit
There was a light at the window
a light under the door
but, it's not there anymore
(come on over
get your shoes on
get your feet on, baby
come on over)