The signal-less drivers are so content
with their named napkins
and their stolen paper bag hearts
They tie their hands behind their back
That's the name for them:
The Painters of the Green Trees
But I'll sit
in the glare
of the sun, drunk
Burying
the bones my grandfather took
And everytime I don't
give birth
I put my head out the window
'Cause that's another day that he's alive
and another day that I don't have to die
And you're right
You're so right
God forbid an empty chair
But even if you hollowed out
the backseats of the broken cars
there's still room enough for me on the floor
So I'll sit
in the glare
of the sun, drunk
Burying
the bones my grandfather took
And everytime I don't
give birth
I put my head out the window
'Cause that's another day that he's alive
and another day that I don't have to die