I can pretend that the world is mine.
Like a child crying over a his scrapped knee.
And thinking that sharing the sun is a waste of time.
I can pretend that the world is mine.
Buring houses from piles of leaves and setting fire to the tops of trees.
Little red-handed theives.
I can make beleive that the world is yours.
Falling off a swing and walking underneath a ladder.
(Paint this town to make the pain go away. The miles keep getting lonlier and lonlier.)