Synapse to synapse: the possibility's thin. I'm dressed up for free drinks and family greetings on your wedding, your wedding, your wedding date. The figures in plastic on the wedding cake that I took, were so real.
And I kept distance: the complications cloud the postcards and blip through fiberoptics, as the girls with pigtails were running from little boys wearing bowties their parents bought them: I'll catch you this time!
Crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction? Screaming, drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine. You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set. The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.
Synapse to synapse: the sneaky kids had attached beer cans to the bumper so they could drive up and down the main drag. People would will turn to see who's making the racket. It's not...the first time.
When they lay down the fish will swim upstream and I'll contest, but they won't listen when the casualty rate's near 100 percent, and there isn't a pension for second best or for hardly moving...
Crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction? Screaming, drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine. You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set. The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.
You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set. The white routine to be ingested inaccurately.
