You're the prize fighter,
We're the final blow.
You're made of silver,
We're tin and stone.
Your success is measured in your smile,
We're ghosts in the radio.
Change the station.
You're sick with the melody,
From these songs filled with malady,
The frequency decays,
The song plays on.
We swim against the tide in the hourglass
And wonder how long we will last.
We count the fallen acts as seasons pass,
And wonder how long we will last.
(Start the minute hands in motion)
The doors they keep revolving.
The poets keep on falling.
We craft like thieves to bring you to your knees
I promise I'll be back,
In the form of the victory lap.
They never heard us coming.
Hit the clock,
I'm keeping time in rhythm and in rhyme,
Singing our demise,
While slow dancing on the shoreline.
