Tekster:
Pinhead Gunpowder

I'm not seventeen And going on nowhere fast A decade lost in the East Bay fog Birthday cards thrown in the trash Last years' calendar On the

When you're just a sickly mess You're worn and tired and scared to death Well you, you can come to me And we can share a disease And talk and roll around

Well, I'm thinking about all the losers Who showed up to make this scene Where did they go when things didn't work out When they burned out on the streets

Buffalo once roamed The great expanse of our country Now they stand in the sandbox In the corner of the city We had our picnics in the park Watching the

Election night in that wonderful crowd The President's speech wasn't half as loud as you I listened, too New Years Eve at Rice Street again We fell

Lippold wanted "To create a memorial Something large enough to walk through Like architecture, linear, in pure experience Otherwise nonfunctional" Like

I was falling through the cracks, now I'm piling up bricks I was clutching for straws, now I'm gonna take the fifth I'm gonna say nothing but my name

Home of the braves, land of the free, Where "freedom of choice" just means coke or Pepsi... But I'm not buying it. They say if you're not working You

Gotta find my place in this world Gotta find my place in this world I want to be more than just a face in the crowd I want to be proud of my time in this