chilly fingers and breaky temples
all the pillars falling
calling out suggestions mentioning disgrace
a race to chase more rhymes
the logic has little to do with it
no one's got soul in their shoelaces
the electronic tonic is never out of flavor
the style whiling away the stages
the rage is all the mean
wait until the themes fall out
doesn't appeal to me doesn't cater to disgrace
the mind in mind in yours and mine
lining all the webs with spiders
you have to think about
the flat world the theory the weary traveler
i have some ideas i want to tell you
my fingers are waiting for holding each other
perhaps
clasping the air out there warming it up
filling my pockets and locking them up
there is little to say when i have already said so much
when i slip under the trivia i will knock my knees
someone will answer and i will be like
blank space
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