We're aimless, without antic
We are the undecided
We're blundered, dissatisfied
We'll never make up the time
We're burning books of prose and poetry
Those fuckers lied to me
There's no such thing as art
These metaphors are getting overwrit
And scrutinized to bits
There's no such thing
We're ailing, we're frantic
And yet there's nothing wrong here
We're hopeless because we hoped for more
Than simply doing fine
We're burning books of prose and poetry
Those fuckers lied to me
There's no such thing as art
These metaphors are getting overwrit
And scrutinized to bits
There's no such thing
Everything we've done
Everything we wrote
Everything is gone
But it doesn't matter now
And it didn't matter then
Everything was wrong

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