walls of stonework, plastic bottles littering these streets
cutting our feet on broken glass, hold my hand,

guide me to the chapel and steal my soul

sell it on the black market like a

crack whore's baby, sweet child o' mine

washing our love, our livelihood down the drain

watch it spin, pinwheels alike to those we blew as children

glittering in the warm summer sun, all surrounded by fields of wheat and burrs

you'd hold my hand with softer palms and much less toil

take me down to the stream, babbling brook

dried up like a desert now, full of coble and fashion centers

dusty shelves inside, lined with fogbanks, selling ammonia and bleach

to fight of the beasts, gas them out

choke 'em to death, chloroform and styrofoam in our hearts and

stuffed in our ears,

can't hear our own crying, our own blood spatter,

god we're

dead

dear god we're

dead

inside.