Chipped paint; Carol's gonna turn into dust.
An old saint; A silver surface worn into rust
From long nights in a neighborhood I started to trust.
To you, it's just Scotch Tape and a
Heightened sense of cowardly pride,
A u-lock (some entitlement to keep by your side),
A felt pen, a detour from your morning ride
And what's left behind with your note.
It's the reason I'll be running so late.
A fine point to write off what I'll draw on today
And draft out the storyline to acting my age.
To which I say:
Have you ever felt your perfect teeth
Make a connection with Chicago concrete?
It's messed up. You always can become what you hate.
It's bad luck or intention for attention's sake.
It's so fucked that you couldn't say this straight to my face.
Have you ever felt your perfect teeth
Make a connection with Chicago concrete?
Do gears change as often as the seasons?
Is there a cycle set to breathe in?
Is this the part of me I'll forget?
A chained fence, the cement
Where a casual promise can become a threat.
Chipped paint; Carol's gonna turn into dust.
An old saint; A silver surface worn into rust
From long nights in a neighborhood I started to trust.
To me, it's just messed up you always can become what you hate.
It's bad luck or intention for attention's sake.
It's so fucked that I couldn't say this straight to your face.
To which you'll say:
Have you ever felt your perfect teeth
Make a connection with Chicago concrete?
Do gears change as often as the seasons?
Is there a cycle set to breathe in?
Is this the part of me you'll forget?