the day grows old and gray with rain skies and the troubles keeping you are likewise go to bed after television as outside the moon is turning crimson
all alone like a Sunday "tomorrow's no different" as you say sleep with a drink in your hand stick your head in the sand and sign it all away
the tomb where the deadmen sleep reminds you that your time's too short to grow remorseful you prick up your ears and find it disconcerting to hear the din of the boys in the chapel praying
you've got a burden that's sandbagging you but you can't quite let it out it's like a poison like a sickness that's got you cryin' out