The strings outside the farmers market parking at the corner sparking crack pipes in the moonlight drunk. The money starts to foam addiction picking at the dying skin and screaming as our friend is in the trunk.
The banjo keeps the cops away we fuck around with crime today and facilitate a way to be punk.

With three chords and a smoker cough
Sitting outside the folk-punk shop
I wish we could be a little better
With dreams of home and no way to stop
We ride our trains as they tell us off
I wish that we were in some better weathеr.

Ceiling fan that draws attention doesn't look likе good suspension I'm praying that it cracks all of our skulls
Sleeping in the van again hard to feel in present tense, I'm puking on the basement wall.