Forty miles from the city. Sitting in traffic isn't fun.
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Crucifix stabbed in soil, to a father from a son.
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There's ghosts on the highway. I claim.
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Dancing on the medians. Slamming breaks.
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I'm forty miles from the city and this is the shit that's in my brain,
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I need a whim. Something I can get caught up in.
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I've got to get down to something. If I could sacrifice a little bit,
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I will. Some of us are drinking coffee,
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But how the hell could you read a paper. Probably headlines of fuel,
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While the governments putting all the red tape down.
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Wake up, I just woke up.
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The revolution won't be televised, 'cause it's in the morning drive.
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My Wallpaper Looks Like Paint
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| None More Black |
