The Blunt Force Trauma - i don't want my head to explode // feed them all to the dogs

Minimalist sweatshop art, signed sad fitzgerald
Lipton chicken noodle soup, christmas carols
She's a back door woman, she makes me do handstands
But she'll never give me a ladybug or a wicker chair

Swallowed searching for synonyms of sweet
Coin operated sailors tiptoe on ballerina feet
What's the use in calloused fingers if the hands attached aren't blue
Whoda thunk, they'd give a hog caller trophy to someone like you

Where's my prescription pair of groucho glasses?
It seems that the good times like to come, slow as molasses
Wouldn't be surprised to hear they got hunted by serotonin assassins

I don't want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don't want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don't want my head to explode this tuesday morning
I don't want my head to explode this tuesday morning

When will the spiders hatch today
They're blowing hurricanes away
They're watching hearts and palm trees sway
When can i get it right

When can i run the tape again
When can i finally have a win
With splinters shining in your shins
When can i sleep tonight

What time will gravity fail me
Will i have died in submarines
Or seen what little sights to see
When can i lose the fight

Feed them all, to the dogs
Feed them all, to the dogs
Feed them all, to the dogs
Feed them all, to the dogs

Written by:
Hunter Hart

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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