Print

We'll leave at dusk with only that which we can carryWhatever's left gets burned or buried for if by chance we returnWe'll leave a noteTo Whom It May Concern:Fuck you and your front lawnI'd rather die with my hands tied than holding a gunThere's no place like home for collecting burdens and conjuring ghosts that don't know they're deadSoon there's going to be a fight and we'll all have to choose sides Like kids on the playgroundBut everyone's hungryThere's no place like home for collecting burdens and conjuring ghosts that don't know they're deadHe insists that he's just sick and I don't have the heart to tell him any differentIt's the way it's been and the way it will be until we leaveWe don't need a mirror We don't need those pictures on the wallWe don't need to see ourselves as we are now to remember where we came fromWe'll leave at dusk with only that which we can carryI'll get the dog, you get the baby and pray that there's a god to light our way From Letras Mania