April is a bitch that breads, and blooms life from the deadened trees, and ever kiss that you give me burdens me with memories, and every promise that we've made is, but a brick in a colonnade; a hollow hall of lucid dreams; sleepless, they are lingering.

The hanged man I am I am not, I can't accept the card I got. The pearls, the pearls inside your eyes, whisper to me, "All things die." I fear this summer will be cold, and without you, I shall grow old. And please do not take out your dead, take out the trash, leave me in bed.

A game of chess for you, and me. This wasted land breads apathy. A barren ball of discontent is the place where all my life was spent, but then you came, and spoke to me, unhinged my heart, and slept with me. But now I fear that I must wake, and you must leave, and I will quake.

Tell me when the Kingdom's come, I'll tell ya then that all is done, and Earth is such a waste of time, and Heaven's a high inside your mind.

Come on, baby, take my hand; let's get out of this wasted land, and make a place for you, and me, a place devoid of history.