Our days are numbered 6-6-6
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 rose colored hue
mayday we're going down
These masculine memories are morose
Your kerosine company is comatose
Our days are numbered 3-2-1
And when you bit the bullet I held the smoking gun
Somewhere in these violent volumes
I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of
scars they cut into you
Blisters rose colored hue
mayday we're going down
These masculine memories are morose
Your kerosine company is comatose
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
I'll find myself drifing in a sky full of
scars they cut into you
Blisters rose colored hue
mayday we're going down
These masculine memories are morose
Your kerosine company is comatose
