One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.

I'm The Crazy One Who Thinks That Words Reach People.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.

And If I Tried To Give You Something Else, Something Outside Myself, You Would Not Know That The Worst Of Anyone Can Be, Finally, An Accident Of Hope

Now I Am Going Back And I Have Ripped My Hand From Your Hand As I Said I Would And I Have Made It This Far.