The Corpses Of Our Motivations

The Lawrence Arms

Catching up in the basement that I call home

Dismantling discussions on a piss soaked telephone

I'm all grown up

I've thrown up these feelings lots before

You're sitting in the park while I'm staring at the door enough self mutilation

I've waterlogged and choked one hundred beers

Another week ensconced in yellow smoke I'm no devil

I just have these demons keeping me awake

Pushing on my go-leg

Laughing at cut brakes

The corpse of my motivation hangs in the closet to the comfort of the grave

This coffin's full of nails, rails and pipe and glass

Rotting under yellow growing grass

Five in the chamber and I'm flying through the air

I've tied my blindfold tightly, I'm cutting my hair

I'm a bullet and a target, and I'm drenched in splattered blood

I've learned my lesson one time but once isn't enough

So dry your hands, wash 'em clean of me

Wave your victor's flag on your pile of debris

Because when you die like a hero, you live like a slave

I'd rather die to see it change

Than live and watch it stay the same where

The corpses of my motivations hang on the gallows

Over-ripe with shit like colostomy bags

There's a party in the woods and a dance in city streets

And a rumble down the avenue of fifty thousand stomping feet

And the fire is getting high, igniting sweaty powdered brows

And if he hasn't saved you yet, he isn't gonna save you now

And you're more beautiful than you were on the day that we first met

My angel of the not yet buried dead