When we got to Boston, we knew we'd missed a turn.
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No one back in traffic school had
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told us there are signs that can't be learned.
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Geography's too stubborn and people are too clear,
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so let's go find a road-side motel with a clerk who won't tell.
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Days will turn into nights, nights will turn into days, weeks, seasons, and years.
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We'll stay for years.
|
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Red and white for blood cells, red and white for wine.
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They could be the whole damn spectrum if
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we'd all just let them. Lord, it's such a crime...
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Working on an inch less waistband in the
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strip mall wasteland outside of this town,
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or clawing at the penthouse kitchen floor for just one smidgen
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more,
|
everybody knows, everybody knows that it's in.
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The fix is in.
|
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Let's go back to Boston. Forget about the turn.
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Atlases and gas station attendants are none of our concern.
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We'll forge a little life dear (oh dear) and double down our debts,
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and I guess it stands to reason that the passing seasons will
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slowly dull regrets.
|
Working on an inch less waistband in the strip mall wasteland
|
outside of this town,
|
or clawing at the penthouse kitchen floor for just one smidgen
|
more,
|
everybody knows, everybody knows that it's in.
|
The fix is in.
|
|
-----------------
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The Fix Is In
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| OK Go |
