When I was old, I was custom

Like a ritual passed among cousins

My limbs are a sleeper cell awaiting an order

Growing old

Becoming accustomed

I will plunge

I will plunge

Until the death becomes us

When the knives come out, I don't care how you cut him

All of a sudden, all I believed, was that I wasn't that cunning. Covering holes with bad money

I came running

I came in here on something ugly

On a seafaring vessel

I need you

The rudder

I was a lark, and you must've been something to somebody special

I was a cannon full of addicts, and I came to collect on the 6th and the 7th

I got so sick of the Sabbath

Sick of the satellites

Looking down on you from halfway up ladders

And I fall into patterns