The truth is our dead, they don’t carry messages
Like ghosts with secondhand code…
But still, still, still, still, still I’ll turn up my ears
If my mother appears and speaks to me out in the snow
It was cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold as it gets
The worst of the Midwest. No accident
We stripped what was left of her out of that house
While my father made plans to skip town
And if there’s any kind, kind, kind, kind of kindness in the world
That’s the last time I’ll go back there
I took photos and dishes and decorations for trees
And my sister, she did what she could
Hell, it’s been a sandstorm year
That’s the last time I’ll go back there
Well it looks, looks, looks, looks, looks like while your back was turned
God built the perfect mousetrap. No accident
Dust and ash of man, extinction plan
Shaking hands, just sand on sand
Birth of man, extinction plan
Birth of man, extinction plan
Birth of man, extinction plan
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