floating over the wireless

[rone]

Let's drink to the man
who came up with the plan
to lay down in the fields of forever

In his mercury rhymes,
he is right all the time
about everything you say is wrong

With a voice like a brick,
he reads poems that stick
in your throat like a bottle of metal

Like the Father of Lies,
he's got ash in his eyes
and a jacket made out of a song

But he's cold all the time
`cause his skin is the kind
to make mothers run over their daughters

He wears high-water boots
to wade through the abuse
of a ritual border town slaughter

Alone out in the wilderness with nothing much to do,
he reads words of great accomplishment while polishing his shoes

With the radio on,
his conclusions are drawn
from the burnt-out machine combination

He reads most of the day,
never turning the pages
but working his way through the stations

Preying on the corpses of the ones he used to love,
drowning in the fire of a thousand dying souls

But he's got it all wrong—
there's no blood in his song,
only cheap paper bits
for radio hits

It's only his soul
and he's found nothing's sold out
to someone who's better
than painting with letters

It's not like he's evil,
he just doesn't see
he's decrepit and scattered
like radio mattered
like radio mattered
like radio mattered
like radio matters

So turn off your oxygen,
shut down your coffin,
push your eyes back in your head