Don’t you want it; don’t you think I know about you, know you shrink
and disappear without a trace, and wake up cold in your hollow place,
and wake up sore on your sour face. Sunday morning made the week.
You left a kiss upon my cheek. The daylight knows and grays to fade.
There’s nowhere left for us to play, and no more reasons left to stay here.

And I wait, and I wait, and I think about it. And I wait, and I wait, and I
think about it. I don’t know how to suffer gracefully, nor how to live
without it. Will I, will I become like the grease on my gloves, or the sparks
from the stove, like the wings of the dove, like roses? And I wait, and I
wait, and I think about it. And I wait, and I wait, and I think about it.
Who knew a pistol rang so loud in the woods? I pierce my own ears with
the Psalms and this needle. Did you think I’d interfere with you? Did
you think I’d interfere with you? Did you think I’d interfere with you?
I’ve got these pictures. I’ve got these pictures. I’ve got these pictures of you.

Baby, would you tell me lies, unblinking, red around your eyes? Unclamp the
door, and crawl into my head. All the parties must depart, and others end
before they start. When my turn came, I cried and cried all night.

Shiny red handles, the friction of wheels. The scab is torn open; it bleeds
‘til it heals. I watched our home movies the other night. Time is an angle
that’s not right.

When they said it’s a dream here. Then they said it’s a dream here. And they
said there’s a them here—do you get it?

Would you believe if it happened to you?
Could you conceive if it happened to you?
Continue to bleed if it happened to you?
‘Cause the world is ending.
The world is ending.
The world is ending, little more every day.
The world is ending.
Our world is ending.
It’s ending, it’s ending, in every last way.