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