Thank god I don’t like whiskey or I’d drown
every chord and every melody,
each memory that I still have of you.
And all these April showers ever bring
is the painful bullshit urge I have to sing
another song about the day you died and all these tears my mother cried for you.
And I’m so sick of fever dreams and screams I hear each time I try and move.
The summer sun will never be your friend
and people leave each time the summer ends.
September gives this city life
but pity always fills my silly head.
The air keeps getting colder every day until this city’s finally dead.
I keep waiting for a day when I can finally rest my head - like a fish floating in the river upside down
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