Supercollider
Hopeless
I have no hope or teeth to biteIt’s a blazing asphalt pathThe road, the road sunk a tarred-and feathered sunThe tree-lined margin of errorThe backseat springs are poking at meIt shows, it showsThe stolen tones that drugged them homeThe yellow stripe down the backIt’s gold, it’s goldIt’s not the typewriter that’s dumbWe hung the notes out, let ‘em runYou’ll know, you’ll knowStuccoed the crack in the bellShined the old scoreboardThe prizeThe denim throat and ancient blurred frets i couldn’t hearTuned your used ticketPunched my crooked drumSearched for the perfect change and bronzed the thin tracks i couldn’t hear
From Letras Mania