low
a smoking gun and tiny fingers tremble
as a soul departs with only seven years of memories
an empty baby carriage insults the dawn
while a rumour of angels cry on the lawn
unfit husbands
beneath the rite of midnight
dress in vests filled with dynamite
a plane filled with hope speeds toward the coast
but some dreams die upon bedpost
the evening news has tv's broken
now who will scream for the softer spoken
we pack our bags and strap on ghosts
a plane filled with hope speeds toward the coast
made of children and scissors and paper mache
we all become martyrs from the ricochet
.
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