And it went a little something like:
"Everything will be alright,
The pilot light just needs a little gas."
I asked if you could see the lighthouse from here,
You waited for it to come back around again
Like it was always getting sick
Whenever it went on the water
And then under.
But we'll just sing irony in our rusted voices,
Desperate screaming into warm bubbles
That explode when it reaches the surface.
They are fireworks of sugar and salt,
Delicate earthquakes that look for a fault.
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