well there's sand in my book from writing on the beach trying to find a song for you that the ocean can only reach and this beach is getting wider than my train of thought is long and each little grain of sand is some other asshole poets song so i'll try to get this right before the sunburn says i'm wrong, says i'm wrong i keep on shooting clever guns that blow up in my face and what good to say i'm sorry when time it wont erase all the times i hit erase on every word you said to me and just covered it up like dogshit on a pretty city street just to not piss off the neighbors no wonder i cant sleep, i cant sleep a song without a chorus, this is my first attempt cuz that would really bore us and the title would go limp but these words just keep on shooting out my pen just like a gun and i'm aiming at your ears trying not to come undone cuz you love the smell of gunshots and the company of one.. no fun they'll probably say this sucks but i don't really care and i used the "gunshot" word so it wont get on the air while the rappers do a driveby and smoke crack then praise the lord while a white-bread singer songwriter has to stand here looking bored and while i'm at it, i should mention that all the guns i used in my songs were fake... not real... plastic.. fuck... get real... blast it... i still love you