Behind the Times
Baited snares and the jaded tells.
The night was running ahead of itself.
Bruised and spiteful, out of mind,
I was living behind the times.
Just pull the trigger and glide away.
You're not the first tide or the last wave.
Whiskey eyes and cries like gulls, there's a church with no steeple.
Rough as flint and raw like wind,
I'm full of lightning for all
I've sinned.
My pockets full of broken jewels,
I've run through alleys chasing fools.
Too many names crowd in my head while
I'm netted in the threads
