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I'll be your bright eyed drifter if you'll be my new transistor. I'll mix your wine with clementines if you'll sing about your sister. three months off the sauce has always been your favorite lie. acting like I'm different is still the plank inside my eye.
So here's a two-step treatise on our type of modern guilt. I’ll call you my handshake drug while you burn down what I’ve built. You can lose your mother's ring in my unrepentant tide. I can grow my absence from the thorn stuck in your side. and we’ll hop trains to arkansas and spend the nights awake. you’ll dish out your gospel on our stolen paper plates. and if there's any heaven left then keep us on rotation. There might still be some love to make behind the local country station.