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Rant

de Pope

Blame it on the weather; I’m not that clever
This party isn’t much fun
Every ones sarcastic wrap them in plastic
You don’t need any one
Any one

The conversation lingers on the tip of a finger
The mechanisms broke
His poetry will eat you then digest you
There really isn’t much hope
Isn’t much hope

Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin against my cheek makes me weak
Put it in ignition making bad decisions
She begins to smoke
Lights start flashing she’s over reacting
This has got to be a joke
Be a joke

Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin agents my cheek makes me weak
“You’re making a scene”
Every one is clever in this arctic weather
This party isn’t much fun

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