Crelching baron wastelands.
Pocket sense meaning grans.
Dirty burning wet sand.
I wasn't watching when you showed me your pocket sense
Counting your fingernails behind your armored-core fence
Bezooming by the wayside
Tapes in my mind never died
Dancing feet always ask why
Pencil scratcher in my mind
Where has my butcher's knife gone?
I couldn't even buy one