Well, I woke up this morning, the national debt was drinking my shoes, Yeah, the barrel of crude is bleeding a heavy, porcelain blues. The diplomats are folding their shadows in the Strait of a fractured sigh, While the ceasefire rusts on the marrow of a neon alibi. Oh, the veto weeps sideways when the gasoline forgets to cry! Lord, the carbon credits are suffocating the architecture of the jail, A thousand pardoned ghosts riding on a hollow, static rail. They traded the war powers for a syrup of shattered glass, And the legislative geometry is buried in the ultraviolet grass. Yeah, the algorithm’s howling, but the subpoena’s running out of gas! I got the subpoena blues, dripping from a bruised and weeping vault, Where the border lines are calcified in an ocean of static salt. They signed a treaty with a moth in the basement of the void, Now the crude oil is rusted, and the velvet horizon is destroyed. The parking meter has finally learned to swallow the accordion.
