Текст песни Dance Gavin Dance - Burning Down The Nicotine Armoire Pt. 2

Still grinding teeth, trying to follow you home
I'll stop the world 'cause this plan is slow
Wait across the street in the parking lot
The tree is dead, the front door is locked

The moments I framed have cracked and crumbled
Grabbed us by the throat then I choked and stumbled
This will never work, this will never work
Check my pulse as I swallow dirt

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I'm cutting myself with my own morals
I never meant to write about you
(I never meant to write about you)
The one contact that I loved so much
But passing my own heart
What could possibly be within?

Do you think about your actions?
Do you ever wonder what the consequences are?
(Your licensed M. Bison got stabbed with a five dollar syringe)
(Your licensed M. Bison got stabbed with a five dollar syringe)
The dullness of existence
(I'm dressed in white, shine so bright, hair so tight)

And I have no sympathy for this
He needs somebody else to leech off of
(Somebody else to leech off of)
The one contact that I loved so much
But passing my own heart
What could possibly be within?

Do you think about your actions?
Do you ever wonder what the consequences are?
(Your licensed M. Bison got stabbed with a five dollar syringe)
The dullness of existence
(Your licensed M. Bison got stabbed with a five dollar syringe)
The dullness of existence
(I'm dressed in white, shine so bright, hair so tight)

Prescribed the throat, I need the antidote
It's fucking mind over matter
Prescribed the throat, I need the antidote
It's fucking mind over matter
Prescribed the throat, I need the antidote
It's fucking mind over matter
Prescribed the throat, I need the antidote
It's fucking mind over matter
My concepts are rested
And manifest in ways you can't forget
My concepts are rested
And manifest in ways you can't forget

(My concepts are rested)
If you're gonna wear the uniform
You better sell the cookies
Don't come to my house asking for a handout
(My concepts are rested)
If you're gonna wear the uniform
Sell the fucking cookies
Don't come to my house...

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