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Our days are numbered 666 and I'll begin the countdown by calling off the circus somewhere in these cryptic scriptures I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of scars they cut into you Blisters rosed colored blue mayday we're going down These mescline memories are morose Your kerosine company is comatose And when you bit the bullet I held the smoking gun Somewhere in these violent volumes I'll find myself drifting in a sky full of scars And I would sick up half of my cold eye to set you on your head If I were you then I would memorize this loose lipped lullaby insted of waiting carving out your own |
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