Truman & His Trophy
No Forks, No Spoons
No forks, no spoonsYour savage handsWon't know what to doNo sounds, no sightsAs you sit in spaceAnd space sits outside of your mindNo cars, no planesAs the roads erodeAnd specsInfect the airwavesNo teeth, no smilesYou won't displayYour helpless tasteFor candy or piesWe're all just specsWe're all no funWe're all a wreckYou're a loaded gunBut believe me when I sayTomorrow will be the dayWhen the world will be giving upAnd the maggots will be seenAnd sprayed away
From Letras Mania