作曲 : James
Blow in through the door 
Like a ghost that is nice 
My crosshairs align and my grip is tight
My friends are bullets 
That I shot at tin cans
No feathers no wings 
No feet and no beaks 
And no place to land
No place to land
When you finally come home 
Don't be surprised 
If there's rust in my throat and red in my eyes
My friends are knives 
That cut out my tongue
No songs and no beats no words left to speak 
Just utters and grunts
Utters and grunts
Drive ten thousand miles 
Just to tear off your arm 
Just to play the guitar and recite a poem
My friends are bottles 
That I dropped on the ground
They shatter and break 
And they always take 
Too long to come home
Too long to come home