I lay down an awful wreck, pissing out my window and smoking in bed. The good don't die young, they just haven't had time to fuck up the same as the rest of us yet. I want nothing, nothing at all. I'd be driving drunk if I still got drunk. Rev the ignition, straight on to oblivion. Into a void as pure as they come. But if we aren't dead yet, then let's not live as ghosts. If we aren't in jail, then we can leave the house. I'll show you that there's reason to hope in the spray paint that's all over downtown. Let's fill up our shopping carts with the things we need and just roll out the front door, past the cashiers and security guards. But the magnets trip the wheel locks before we even clear the parking lot, and take off running through the neighbor's yard. I lay down an awful wreck, mumbling to myself about the government again. Maybe postmodernism's just an extended tantrum about how we don't have our flying cars yet. I want nothing, nothing from them. I'd smash every machine if I didn't have one. Rev the ignition, straight onto oblivion, into a void as pure as they come. But if we aren't dead yet, then let's not live as ghosts. If we aren't in jail, then we can leave the house. I'll show you that there's reason to hope in the spray paint that's all over downtown. Meet me at the diner at six o' clock on every Wednesday night, and we'll get some coffee and pie. I'll smile, tip the waiter, get a ride home: "Thanks for the favor." And hope that that's enough to build a life.
