Eighteen Inches

(álbum: A Guided Tour Of Chicago - 1999)

Face down on the ground
Stormclouds lie in white snowpiles all around
I don't know if I can make it through one more winter in this town

Voted worst in show the last two years
I got a refill on my tears
Another bottle of foam yellowed clear

The old man twitching on the train
Reminds us of mortality
The snow everywhere reminds us of the rain

And my burned and brittle skin
Cracked and blistered in the wind
Is testament to repetition as the impossible happens again

So, what's your new years revolution?
Take off those ten unsightly pounds
The snow is piling higher and your face is growing closer to the ground

Raising your glass at the office party
Or photocopying your secretary's ass
Is no less pathetic than our self righteously self important tasks

Of barfing rhetoric on shiny table tops
As our collars and turtlenecks choke us right there in the coffee shops
Winter will not wait for you
Ironically, your worst dream has come true
Pontification means nothing

When I woke up and looked around
I found that my dreams had melted into dirty puddles on the ground
When I woke up and looked around
I saw my dreams had melted into dirty puddles on the ground
On the ground, on the ground
On the ground