Your hurried footsteps sound, as if your packing up and leaving town.
Beneath the second floor.
Every sounds exagerrated and its november snow.
It makes it hard to see the open road.
It seems the seasons change.
Exactly when youre desperate for things to stay.
If you call If you call.
I will always answer you.
WIth words that ring of broken dreams, and ill seldom ever use.
It may come to you, underground.
I wrote a clever song.
I always dreamt the crowd would sing along.
To my empty thoughts.
Kill the poets to save their dying art.
But if you call, but if you call I will always answer you.
WIth words that ring of broken dream, that ill seldom ever use.
Ive never been a comfort, cause no one ever taught me how to read, and we never quite remember so ill carve out names in ever fence and ever living tree.
It may come to you in a dream or vision that you have while your away.
Under ground.
