Angry punk standing at my doorstep and he shouts This is mine
But I won’t budge and he won’t move
And I can hear him mourning better times.
Our stamping ground
Our stamping ground

Shopping for dreams with their pregnant little sister
Robbing dreams from the shelves
Three brothers, the itch and their weakness
Feed the urge. No alibis.
Four failed lives
Four failed lives

Every sliver – what once was but a speck –
Will soon be nagging
Will irk us without end
Woe to amnesia, my cavalier of sorts
Trashing a dolly
To witness to behold
Makes for the sleepless hours
And dreadful nights

I’m selling trinkets and proud of being middle class
Though not without grief
And frankly, why’d you choose to work on ditties.
When you could be drinking the Kool-Aid
Skipping spite
Skipping spite