Well, there's no time left for argument
And God knows we can't rewind
We're scrounging rent
In the basement
Waiting dead for the moon to die

So we fill our cups with poison
With graveyards in our eyes
And we stuff our masks
Through the floorboard cracks
Carving hearts in the muddy pine

Our rocky seas
And rusty leaves
Are here on display
In a time-echoed play
A tragic test flight of the sheetless bed we made
When we chose to trade
A snake in the grass
For a break in the glass
One hidden evil for two devils on parade

But we're flowers in Alaskan cold
We hold our breath in the winter snow
Our petals are ash
And all the plans we've hatched
Are just plants that will never grow

Some toss their coins in a fountain
Some pitch 'em down a pitch black well
But we just stack 'em
On the railroad tracks
And wish for nothing but to share a cell
Two prisoners on a ferris wheel
Shooting ponies on the carousel

Devils On Parade

I'm bursting at the seams with these nightmarish thoughts
Are these hellhounds chasing me or am I chasing a fox?
I've been on the run with a thorn in my side
The devil in my heart and the Lord on my mind

But He don't comfort me
He's just a ghost in a cage
Can you leave some for me
If you come across any faith?

I've come too far now to turn around
But I've come too short to make my grandfathers proud
I've been turning stones in search of my heart
I might have to burn some bridges just to earn a new start

But I'll be burning too
From my heart to my tongue
I'll be turning blue
As darkness swallows the sun

And still my harvest yields
No crops for the spring
These are the harshest fields
My eyes have ever seen

If you're searching for clues, you might as well grab a spade
'Cause the answers that you're digging for, I'll take to my grave
You stay warm in the dark and I'll stay cold in the light
Live by His philosophies; I'll live by mine

Still I can't steer this boat
Without a captain's wheel
If He'd just clear His throat
I'd know His voice is real

This screeching rocking chair
It used to have such grace
Now just one lock of hair
Would neatly frame His face

I'm just a bastard son
Waiting to be reborn
You grip your pastor's gun
Your mouth loaded with sores

mccoy-andrew