Tekster: Propagandhi. Less Talk, More Rock. Gifts.

Wake up, coughing, tired, with my face in my hands,
All the energy it takes to close these bedroom blinds.
staring at the window as the sunlight demands action.
spent half the span of some lost culture's rise and fall,
but I'm as clueless as a drooling four year old.
Wrote this selfish sadness on a bathroom wall,
Still hoping I might find the capacity to let you know I know you're lonely.
Here's the promises I've made, tied too tight to undo.
So here's the last call for regrets,
a final slow dance through the days that we all hold on to.
reaching for a small-town downtown, night rain,
All the slightly insane on the 18 North Main,

An unwrapped gift from me to you.
Like "Hey, whatever happened to what's that guys' name?",
we get a little older and it looks the same: askance.
nothing I could say could be worth saying anyway today.
Excuse my failing sense of humour.
Here's the promises I've made; a razor blade and this broken piece of chain.
A history left to rust out in the rain.