oranges
Ha-a-a-ah
I'll do, I'll do a few more
The long arc of history doesn't bend
It just decays until the end
Some preacher's righteous dividends
Some party I didn't attend
New soft cells I cannot create
Sell oranges off the interstate
The sun goes down fifteen to eight
So you better film it now
(But the glass has turned to sand)
These days that we have fasted
Our stomachs full of plastic now
You could light a bottle, you could tell me to run
You could be a model, you could be a terrible son
You could hide out in your hovel 'til that hard knock comes
Broke my window and I guess I better buy me a gun
We're burning matches on a mattress while we stare at the sun
It's not fun anymore, so we better kill it now
(But the glass has turned to sand)
These days that we have fasted
Our stomachs full of plastic
(There's blood on their hands)
Soft bones and paper fashion
Your heart is looking tragic now
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
I know it's getting worse
I know I'm not the first
To try to find a way out of this
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
I know it's getting worse
I know I'm not the first
To try to find a way out of this
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
My lungs are frail (Frail)
I'll do, I'll do a few more
The long arc of history doesn't bend
It just decays until the end
Some preacher's righteous dividends
Some party I didn't attend
New soft cells I cannot create
Sell oranges off the interstate
The sun goes down fifteen to eight
So you better film it now
(But the glass has turned to sand)
These days that we have fasted
Our stomachs full of plastic now
You could light a bottle, you could tell me to run
You could be a model, you could be a terrible son
You could hide out in your hovel 'til that hard knock comes
Broke my window and I guess I better buy me a gun
We're burning matches on a mattress while we stare at the sun
It's not fun anymore, so we better kill it now
(But the glass has turned to sand)
These days that we have fasted
Our stomachs full of plastic
(There's blood on their hands)
Soft bones and paper fashion
Your heart is looking tragic now
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
I know it's getting worse
I know I'm not the first
To try to find a way out of this
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
I know it's getting worse
I know I'm not the first
To try to find a way out of this
(Turn my head and
Turn my head and they've got blood on their hands again)
('Cause I'm too stupid, I'm too stupid not to stare at the sun)
Your smoke is stale (Smoke is stale)
(Burning matches on a mattress just so I can feel something)
And my lungs are frail (Lungs are frail)
My lungs are frail (Frail)
Credits
Writer(s): Madison Champlin, Mark Champlin
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
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