How many times must I have to paint over these mountains dried up grass?
When all you do is bleed right through it.
Deeper than any rooted scab.
Burn it, burn it down, beneath the soil where you store your crazy sleazy animal dust.
I find hard to articulate, I find hard to pronounce...
I find hard to articulate, I find hard to pronounce these words.
How many times must I have to say You're losing me over a stab.
Following dust throughout endless rows.
That lead under the open skies.
Burn it, burn it to the ground.
Watch it melt away.
