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Bet Your Life
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Brittle Bones
I've got little bones to pick
With all these skeletons.
They've got me rattling to my grave.
One by one I stuff them in
And ten by ten they spill back out
To point their middle fingers at my name.
Quit peering through my windows.
Quit standing at my door.
I've been working on my slight of hand
And sharpening my teeth
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But I won't go dancing on my grave.
With vacancies in storages
On every corner here you can
Find somewhere else to lay the blame.
We break then we pretend that we meant none of it.
These dead are not my friends.
We waste and we collect, but we need none of it.
These bones won't mean the end.
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