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Smith Elliott Figure 8 junk bond trader the imitation picks you up like a habit writing in the glow of the tv static taking out the trash to the man give the people something they understand mistake a nervous flash for a fine-line smile junk bond trader trying to sell a sucker a style rich man in a poor man's clothes the permanent installment of the daily dose and you tell me, "fool, you tell it like it is" your wall's gone wider than your head trip is checking into a small reality void as a drug you take too regularly the apple needs to laugh; the broken crutch the first true love folded at the slightest touch brought down like an old hotel people digging through the rubble for things they can resell "happy holidays," sad, sick savior the leaving lover i still favor i won't take your medicine i don't need a remedy to be everything i'm supposed to be i don't want nobody else i can do it by myself we're meant to be together now i'm a policeman directing traffic keeping everything moving, everything static i'm the hitchhiker you recognize passing on your way to some everlasting... better sell it while you can better sell it while you can better sell it while you can better sell it while you can |
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