Don’t tell me that you love me
I’ve got nothing left in turn
Except this empty bag of promises
And second degree burns
On the tips of my fingers
From touching certain fruit
That I never should have touched in the first place

Well the sky’s raining fire
But I think I’ll go to bed
Because there ain’t much you can do
When it burns down on your head
Except pray and beg for mercy
From this hell that you created
On the corner of Satan and St. Paul

And my cup it runneth over
And it runs down in my eyes
Maybe when I’m a little older
I won’t tell myself so many lies

Well it took me twenty years
Just to find myself a pen
For to write down all the words
Just to scratch them out again
I could use another twenty years
To fix the last fifteen
But it never seems to work to my advantage

Now I’m walking here on rusted nails
With broken wings and battered sails
I told you that I’m leaving
But I’m probably telling lies
If only I could make it out
To Denver, Colorado
I’d book it out of Satan and St. Paul