Idiots of March

I'm making decisions covered up with my mistakes
On a clearance foundation of quicksand and rye
Sell me on confidence a side salad of style
Magazine personality of valid opinions and lies

I'm making revisions with my gasoline hands
Step right up and wind the clock the bar is on the floor
Well I got mine lighting the night and a dream of divinity
At what point does share your toys become not at my door

Coming up with my own conclusions
Supplemented with a new point of view
An attitude that's added to the internal conversation
That's all about me doing what I do and selling out you
And here's how it goes down

A taste of mud is a taste of love
Complemented with a fetish so clean
All my safety words are written in blood
It's just a joke stop twisting thems
You know exactly what I mean

Time will tell it has no secrets to hold,
No loyalty no banners unstepped or indifferences to mold
A narrative glued sloppily by ego at the seams
I don't even remember which end I need to feed