The time has come for colds and overcoats. We're quiet on the ride, we're all just waiting to get home. Another week away, my greatest fear. I need the smell of summer, I need its noises in my ears. If looks could really kill, then my profession would staring. Please know we do this cause we care and not for the thrill. Collect calls to home to tell them that I realize that everyone who lives will someday die and die alone. And we won't let you in. Though we're down and out. We won't let you in. I wrote more postcards than hooks. I read more maps than books. Feel like every chance to leave is another chance I should have took. Every minute is a mile. I've never felt so hallow. I'm an old abandoned church with broken pews and empty aisles. My secrets for a buck. Watch me as I cut myself wide open on this stage. Yes, I am paid to spill my guts. I won't see home till spring. Oh, I would kill for the Atlantic, but I am paid to make girls panic while I sing. And we won't let you in. Though we're down and out.
We won't let you in. And we won't let you in. We don't want what isn't ours. We won't let you in. You win. And the coastline is quiet. While we're quietly losing control. Yes, we're silent but sure we inventened the cure that will wash out my memories of her. "The harpoon is loaded. The cage is lowered. The water is red." Like you
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