Sunday Afternoon - Fritz

They're merely insects, and objects, and such a waste of space
We traveled light years, to be here, the winter cleared the race
And with composites, cadavers, and bits of this and those
Still they cling to the see through, of what Miss Shelly wrote
And when man came, in God's name, and God and men have merged
Into monsters, high ideals, each stitch in turn bestowed
In entered lightning, bright ideas, on who to place the blame
They're learning nothing, it's all gone, so shall we play a game?

They're making contact

In pieces stolen, and swollen, taking artifact to twist
New pinkish tissue, each issue, a sin on every wrist
Still so imperfect, not pretty, the writings on the wall
All combined now, sacred cow, these monsters bullish ball
It's like a sickness, infection, the chicken and the egg
There is no wisdom, when prides in creeping further up your leg
So in turn just leave them, in fiction, drowning deeper shallow still
They're clawing skyward, for the answers, catching nothing - never could

They're making contact

And in the absence of hope, that's when the creatures hit the streets
They come out, they come out
Such a special kind of skill, jigsaw pieces set to silk
They come out, they come out
Testimony built to books but the readers all gone blind
They come out, they come out
Clawing skyward for the answers, catching nothing, never could
They come out, they come out

Written by:
Mickey Lyons

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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