Our days are numbered 666
and I'll begin the countdown by calling off the circus
somewhere in these cryptic scriptures
I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of scars they cut into you
Blisters rosed colored you
mayday we're going down
These mescline memories are morose
Your kerosine company is comatose
Our days are numbered 321
And when you bit the bullet I held the smoking gun
Somewhere in these violent volumes
I'll find myself drifting in a sky full of scars
And I would sick up half of my cold eye
to set you on your head
If I were you then I would memorize
this loose lipped lullaby insted of waiting
carving out your own.
