Service Stationed (Live at Scala)

The sweet scent of the underground

Gets lost in the thicket now

Is it not a good time to stop the playing the game?

Opened up the car boot

There's no bodies and no food

Kept on driving like bait hangs on a crane

Graft their logos on skin

On its calloused thickening

Believe in honour, believe in gold pots at the end

An umbilical sense of purpose

Strapped to dash, "yeah I heard this"

Battery fills and the weak sun's battery wanes

Keep on keeping on

Lay the tracks over sleeping gods

Keep on keeping on

Morris' ghost is paved in the housing estate

Keep on, keeping on

147-141

Keep on keeping on

Morris' ghost is lost in the housing estate

Chop off the offending limb

When it started reaching

Ivy creeps and binds the illuminous frame

Until it becomes a ruin

No longer bright with fluids

Is this really how our journey ends?

I gave a gift to every toll station attendant

But they stared back unimpressed

I gave a gift to every toll station attendant

But they'd been replaced without a face

Sweet scent of the underground

Reclaimed by the thicket now

The tracks are buried under time's sleight ways

And as it stands a ruin,

No longer bright with fluids

Is it not a good time to stop playing the game?

Keep on keeping on

Lay the tracks over sleeping gods

Keep on keeping on

Morris' ghost is paved in the housing estate

Keep on keeping on

147-141

Keep on keeping on

Morris' ghost is lost in the housing estate