chord spine the way of a splinter

masked bags with mixed days that didn't

rhyme to me or speak to me rhyme to me or speak
to me

tan lines that burn in the winter

mixed up with masks that didn't

rhyme to me or speak to me.

I cried my quarters to sleep I didn't leave them

one on one with the woman in a magazine

looking at fast drying paint cans

looking at fast drying paint cans.

Chord spine the way of a splinter

mask bags with mixed days that didn't

rhyme to me or speak to me

stuffed chokes the day in my heartbox

early mourning heatlamp that couldn't

rhyme to me speak to me.

I cried my quarters to sleep

I didn't leave them

one on one with the woman in a magazine

looking at fast drying paint cans

looking at fast drying paint cans.

I look forward to hearing from you.