Everything Ive loved has turn to stone so pack your bags and come back home.
I’m wasted. You can taste it. Don’t look at me that way.
Cause I’ll be hanging from a rope. I will haunt you, like, a ghost.
If my man was a fire he’d burn out before I wake and be replaced with pints of whiskey, cigarettes and outer space.
And don’t fucking move or everything you thought you had will go to shit.
We have a lot. Don’t you ever, forget that.