When we got to Boston, we knew wed missed a turn.
No one back in traffic school had
told us there are signs that cant be learned.
Geographys too stubborn and people are too clear,
so lets go find a road-side motel with a clerk who wont tell.
Days will turn into nights, nights will turn into days, weeks, seasons, and years.
Well stay for years.
Red and white for blood cells, red and white for wine.
They could be the whole damn spectrum if
wed all just let them. Lord, its such a crime...
Working on an inch less waistband in the
strip mall wasteland outside of this town,
or clawing at the penthouse kitchen floor for just one smidgen
more,
everybody knows, everybody knows that its in.
The fix is in.
Lets go back to Boston. Forget about the turn.
Atlases and gas station attendants are none of our concern.
Well forge a little life dear (oh dear) and double down our debts,
and I guess it stands to reason that the passing seasons will
slowly dull regrets.
Working on an inch less waistband in the strip mall wasteland
outside of this town,
or clawing at the penthouse kitchen floor for just one smidgen
more,
everybody knows, everybody knows that its in.
The fix is in.
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