If I should chose my words carefully it will be the death of me.
I’ll forget to speak and begin to leak as the pressure slides out in anyway it can
Sipping from a soda can I can’t can-can, but I can count on you to land on my mind.
If you explore the root of the matter you’ll find a lot of dirt will turn to mud
If you water it down with dry tears (in the mist of a drought, they’re simply not there)
And I won’t care enough to complain when in the present,
But I’m not past this.
Turn on the TV and I disappear from the reflection
Distraction therapy will be the death of me.
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