I'm in the states — from flower pollen born. Made in the states — a label on every dream we've worn. Fatigue is carved on every face. Youth is sold in every powder trace. Pride is made of cardboard thin. So much work, till the grave we spin. Here’s my concrete burrow, cold and gray. Here’s my beautiful prison where I stay. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. We read the air like it’s a debt we owe. Behind excuses, hide what really matters so. The gears keep sifting, sorting out our kind. The past devours us, leaves nothing behind. We lose our color among the flowers bright. We have no islands left in sight. No one knows the backside of a smile. No one complains — and that’s no mistake, no denial. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. Everything will be picturesque — Falsehood drips away, the painting starts to flake. Everything will be picturesque...
