The secret’s losing stock, and we were finally listening
Doors were set for eight, the show was set for seven
And throughout the evening she covered the tables with
cork and old knives
And bandaged all the cuts that her heart was keeping

And we were singing with no restrictions or dramas to
tear us apart
Counting up our vices together and planning forever with
our paper hearts
And all the silhouettes in the room would be willing to
help from the start

Every single switch, and every single solder
Directions on the box for every single father
On how to make some faint connection with their sons
who’ve cut their own path
With dirt between their nails and peace in their souls

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