I don't know who I am
I lost half of the folks I love last summer
Call a slaughter of hand, of a cynical man
Who hates when the band plays covers
And all the girls are standing with a tan skin
In a bar with a savior complex
But he don't need saving
All he needs is old songs, real love, and good sex

And they're piling up, in a pickup truck
Underneath the California skyline
I don't think communion, is what you're doing
When you're drunk off real good wine