New roaches moved into our old basement flats
to marvel at the stains we left
to rummage through the dumpster's scraps
the rooftops are vacant now
ghost stories and bled out cans
and the echo in the street light buzz
it'll talk, it'll talk of big plans
we are the ink of misspelled poetics
we're cryptic and small
scribbled down on the chipping paint of
history's bathroom stall
pawn the records to pay bills
artifacts on a back wall stand
hospitalized in a sheet of dust
longing for the touch of the needle's hand
and the early morning pull
who'll be the last one awake
some idealistic stupor
seeking purpose in
purpose in grave mistake
we are the ink of misspelled poetics
we're cryptic and small
scribbled down on the chipping paint of
history's bathroom stall
and the hours of impulse
we're faithful and young
i can't quite remember
must have been, must have been real fun