Words are the worst way to say what I have to say
But sometimes you can't play how you want to play to show it well
And this is one splinter, splinter of a sentence
Both a pain and a pleasure to try to expel, but I have to tell
About the years of influence and artless advice
That can still only escape in a struggling, stilted excuse for a smile
And when you're parked over on the wrong side of nowhere
No amount off nothing is going to make it worthwhile
A touch, subdivided, rinsed, and sold
Before the hands have a chance to get cold as an eyelash pries an hour from the schedules of the uninvolved
And your sills so-called insulation
Can only sigh at December Sundays, unsolved
So like the transportation of the suns
You must hold steady to the ones who light your mornings, nights, and afternoons
And if you should grow angry with the pace of chance
Don't be afraid to make some plans for December Sundays soon
Today you missed her getting up, once again
Well boy, you've got to listen to me
Promise her you'll rise this day next year, from this very bed
From this very bed
From this very bed
Today you missed her getting up, once again
Well boy, you've got to listen to me
Promise her you'll rise this day next year, from this very bed
From this very bed
From this very bed
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