Left Align

I bought my dog a metal chain,

To walk him safely in the rain.

But since it's made of solid ore,

Can such a heavy lead lead more?

I used a pencil for my map,

To navigate a tourist trap.

But when the tip snapped clean away,

Did broken pencil lead lead astray?

The actor wanted center stage,

To scream and shout and show his rage.

But since he mumbled through the play,

Could such a quiet lead lead the way?

I tried to eat a fishing weight,

And put it on my dinner plate.

The doctor asked, as I turned blue,

Intro

’Hä?!" "No..." "Och nööö..."

"Wait, wait..." "Gleich... gleich..."

"SCHEIẞE!"

Verse 1

SCHEIẞE, you called my name

Like a Rotlicht flashin'

I was half out the door

Then (ausgepackt)—the question.

Need another one now

You said it like a sentence

Ich laufe schon, ich laufe schon!

Yeah–I meant it, (I meant it!)

Pre-Chorus

Hole up!

Don’t make me wait!

"Sag es einmal"—

I’m on my way!

Count it up!

I’ll bring the same.

"Vollgas", verdammt!

I know you know my name!

Chorus

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(NOCH EINEN! STAT!)

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(Ausgepackt-ausgepackt! STAT!)

Right now!

No slack!

"Sag das Wort"—

No. Don’t hit back.

Verse 2

You want it clean, you want it loud.

You want that quick-fix energy.

One more "Zug", one more round,

Keep the whole room sendin' me.

Ich blinke nicht, I don’t stall,

I just move—and you tap right in.

One call, I’m down the hall,

Mit dieser fiesen Fratze again!

Pre-Chorus

A hold th'hold, uh—a hold that—hold up!

Don’t make me wait!

"Sag es einmal"—

I’m on my way!

Count it up!

I’ll bring the same.

"Vollgas", verdammt!

*Tja* I know—you know—we ALL know...

you know my name.

Chorus

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(NOCH EINEN! STAT!)

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(Ausgepackt-ausgepackt! STAT!)

Right now!

No slack!

"Sag das Wort"—

And don't hit back.

Bridge

(Straßenjunge...) You got that look

Like this ain't enough

(Straßenjunge...) So I double back

"Wenn der Druck steigt!"

One more time

Let it land

(Straßenjunge...) Ich hab keinen Plan—

(Straßenjunge...) I need a kleine Hand...

(Straßenjunge...) I need a kleine Hand...

(H'ha h'ha—) I need a little—"Ich könnte eine ganz kleine Hilfe gebrauchen."

Bis dahin, Straßenjunge—I need a kleine Hand—STAT!!

"Ich krieg die Krise!"

HOLE UP! (Count it out.)

Zähl es zusammen, verdammt noch mal.

Chorus

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(NOCH EINEN! STAT!)

"SCHEIẞE, I'm gunna need another Straßenjunge—STAT!

(Ausgepackt-ausgepackt! STAT!)

Right now!

No slack!

"Sag das Wort"—

but don't— don't— don't... (don't hit—)

"Straßenjunge, on the att-a'ack."

No don't hit back.

Outro

Straßenjunge...

Straßenjunge...

Tja.

Auf gar keinen Fall.—one with a schlightly schmaller Schnitzengruben—bitte

Hä?!

Schluss jetzt.

Straßenjunge...

"Check dem indicators..." *foom chk-chk-chk-chk-chk*

"Count dem wheel-jerks..." *foom chk-chk-chk-chk-chk*

"And by all trucking means..." *chk, chk, chk—*

marshall dem cones.

The indicators flash and fade,

asphalt hums a well-worn hymn,

old exits rise in the lights—

neon-bled and fever-dim.

Roadwise,

reelin' 'eat 'ize...

delight o' wheels roll by.

A thousand times the wheel has jerked

pop-quick—off course—then swallowed in

to lose the mind in static dark,

where damp clings like another skin.

Unwind,

me and my mind...

*exit number nine flies by*

Faded orange detour cones

guard the places I once knew.

Pressing harder on the gas

only pulls the rearview through—(*hiss... foom*

warnings in the rain—

*vrrm...

whummm...

foom...

chk-chk...*

drive the chorus back again—*whine...

hiss...

hiss... foom...*)

My mind,

swervin' on align,

(what a terrible thing to cruise.)

White-knuckled on the outer rim,

the pacing heart outruns the gears,

blinding eyes to neon signs,

mileposts dot forgot'en years.

Deadline,

zip in to intwine...

*exit number nine flies by*

The mind's a stretch of blacktop bent

pit-STOCK—a rider up inside;

one quiet prayer keeps pointing north

Since I can’t save time in a bottle—

I’ll settle for a bottle enlined unthrough its neckbackbottom

where unside is inline with itself.

An ouroboros genie in a glass-act recursion

A patch—

HacK C R E A T O R

this is not text this is a throat compiling into geometry

DO NOT stŒp CLOSE WINDOW stŒp VOICE STILL stŒp BUILDING WITHIN

A pre-structure FELIX KLEIN folding through himself without ever finding a seam—

no inside, no outside, just continuity learning it never needed edges.

Just: baby… bottle…

Verse 1

Bleck

Everybody’s vibrato is set to "Scream" again

Stacked carts

Long lines

Cheap perfume that smells like a haunted department store

Fluorescent headache of a Tuesday—wait, is it Tuesday? I don’t even know anymore.

P’ha

And in the gaps between the sighs and the rants

There’s a joke hiding under my tongue

Laughing at myself for staying to buy a single, bruised onion.

Chorus

But damn

There’s that one lady by the rotisserie

She gives me shivers

Ooh

She gives me shivers

Right there (hey!)

And now I just think

Ooh

The entitlement is the worst

Of all the things this world can be

Yeah

Now I trust

Now I think

Ooh

The bob haircut is the worst

Of all the things this world can be

Verse 2

There she goes

Live-streaming a teenage cashier like it's Watergate

Cutting the line

Asking for a manager

Because her "Buy One Get One" expired in 1998.

I bite my lip

Find a little joke in my shaking hands

If life is just a matrix of unfortunate events

She’s the one who’s here to complain to the architect.

Bridge

Maybe it’s me

Maybe it’s the gluten-free bread

Maybe we’re all just three minutes away from being "that person" instead.

But in this checkout line catastrophe

One thing’s crystal clear to me (so clear)

Chorus

Yeah

Damn

There’s that one lady over there

She gives me shivers

Ooh

She gives me shivers

Over there

And now I just think

Ooh

The audacity is the worst

Of all the things this world can be

Yeah

Now I trust

Now I think

Ooh

This grocery store is the worst

The Father Who Ate Time / The Son Who Learned to Hide It:

Cronus learned early that prophecy sounds like laughter if you close your mouth around it hard enough.

The first child cried and the sound pierced him—sharp, future-shaped—so he swallowed the sound whole.

Stone, skin, destiny: it all felt the same going down.

Silence followed. Silence always felt like order.

Rhea learned a different craft.

She learned substitution.

She learned that fathers who fear replacement can be fooled by weight and ritual.

A stone wrapped in cloth teaches a god what he wants to believe.

Zeus grew where time could not see him.

He learned patience not as virtue but as camouflage.

When he returned, he did not beg. He did not accuse.

He fed his father a medicine that made memory come back up.

The children returned in order—vomited, blinking, unfinished.

Cronus fell not because Zeus struck him,

but because time, once released, refuses to be eaten again.

This was spectacle.

This was bloodless violence.

This was the world learning that fear can rule—but only briefly.

The Father Who Knew the Sky / The Son Who Wanted It:

Daedalus built because staying still felt like dying slower.

He built the labyrinth to contain the monster,

then discovered the monster was containment itself.

The wings were careful work.

Wax measured. Feathers sorted.

Every instruction was precise because love, for Daedalus, meant control sharpened into advice.

Do not fly too low.

Do not fly too high.

Do not mistake exhilaration for permission.

Icarus heard him.

He truly did.

But hearing is not the same as believing your body will obey when joy takes the reins.

The sun did not seduce him.

It simply did what it always does—

shine without regard.

When Icarus fell, the lesson became visible.

Bodies teach more efficiently than words.

Daedalus survived, which is its own kind of punishment.

This was spectacle.

This was warning carved into air.

This was love that arrived exactly one moment too late.

The Father Who Sent the Child Away / The Son Who Walked Back Toward Him:

Oedipus left Corinth because prophecy had begun to sound personal.

He chose exile as proof of goodness,

as though distance alone could make him innocent.

The road narrowed.

Dust rose.

A cart approached, heavy with authority and impatience.

Laius had learned what happens when you hesitate.

He had learned that children become problems when you let them live long enough to ask questions.

He had learned that roads belong to those who claim them first.

Neither man recognized the other.

Recognition requires room.

This road allowed none.

Oedipus stood his ground because yielding felt like surrendering his name.

Laius raised his hand because he mistook youth for insubordination.

And in the instant before motion becomes fate,

before story becomes wound,

Oedipus sees it—

The streams will carve the mountain bare.

Its driplet dreams will braid the air

'til Heaven's lips

provide causeway

and clouds of love

Oh

dya'da dy'da d'da dah doe-doe

dya'da dah dy'da d'da dah doe-doe

dya'da dy'da d'da dah dah doe-doe doe-doe

Thought spun tight from a flumadiddle freeze

A flicker

A whisper

A riddle in the breeze

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

Small things hoard secrets up their sleeves

Oh

The silent chorus sings

"Geeze"

Aloof

The magic molts

It sheds

It grieves

Everywhere its light

It leaves

It leaves

The powers that be

Have highlighted me

Once empty of glee

Now easy to see

Oh

The powers that be

The powers that be

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

Shadows stretch long

They dance in their decay

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

They laugh

They twist

They fade and fray

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

I was a cipher

A blank display

Now I glow

Now I stay

Now I slay

Aloof

The magic molts

It sheds

It grieves

Everywhere its light

It leaves

It leaves

The powers that be

Have highlighted me

Once empty of glee

Now easy to see

Oh

The powers that be

The powers that be

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

Light bends backward

Time does too

It’s a prism

A prison

A dream in blue

They chose me

They chose you

But why

Oh why? Who knew

Who new (Woo noo)

What we'd go through

And why this too?

Who knew? Who new

Hoo nu (Huh nuh)

How we'd been thought up from the middle

Of a flumadiddle freeze,

Oh, to think a thing so little's

Hoarded hints up all its sleeves!

Oh, wha'—*HOO-AY!*

Now sings the silence

dya'da dy'da'd'da dah doe-doe

Every variant of "Geeze"

Aloof at molting magic

Everywhere its light bereaves!

The powers that be-d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

The powers that be-d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

The powers that be-d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

The powers that be-d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

The powers that be

Have highlighted me

Once empty of glee

Now easy to see

Oh

The powers that be

The powers that be

d'd'd'da dy'da'd'da da-do

Have highlighted me!

d'd'd'dit dy'da'd'dit d'da doo doo

Once, empty of glee...

d'd'd'dit da d'd'd'dyit da d'd'd'd'dyit da dee da dee—

The boy did not remember when the first *Clang* happened. Not exactly. Memory slid off it, like condensation off metal. Sometimes he believed he’d been born from that sound, that his mother had merely been nearby when the universe dropped him—still ringing—into her arms. Other times he recalled a calm life before it, whole afternoons of stillness, like a glass of water untouched. But then the *Clang* came, and the water trembled, and so did he.

Now, years later, he lived inside its echo.

People whispered about him in the village. “He hears things.” “He predicts things.” “He’s touched.” They never used the word *broken*, but the boy felt it, pressed under their tongues like a seed they refused to spit out or swallow. They feared him. They admired him. They adored him, until they didn’t. Every expectation was a rope tied around his ribs.

He was twelve when the foresights began. Not visions—those would have been merciful. No, the boy saw only *almosts* and *barelies*: flickers of what might happen if someone blinked too long or opened a door with the wrong hand. He caught these micro-futures like sparks drifting upward from an unseen fire. Sometimes he saved someone. Sometimes he didn’t. Either way, the village built a mythology around him, and myths never leave room for the living.

The boy grew into a strange adolescence, a creature half-shaped by alarm bells. He walked as if listening to something behind the world. Others called it wisdom. He called it waiting.

Because after the first *Clang*, he knew there would be another. Every echo promises a return.

At fourteen, he woke to the whispering pressure behind his right ear—the silent scream he knew meant change. His own breath sounded metallic. His heartbeat felt doubled, as if something inside him thumped in countertime.

That day marked the arrival of the second voice.

It wasn’t external. It didn’t contradict him. It simply commented, always a millisecond ahead of his thoughts, a kind of predictive twin. At first it felt like intuition sharpening into new clarity. He assumed he was maturing. But the voice grew louder, and the boy grew smaller, shrinking into a corner of himself like a tenant renting only part of a home he used to own.

The second voice analyzed everything: footsteps, glances, the tiny betrayals of tone people don’t know they make. It narrated possibilities he didn’t want to hear. *They’re leaving you. They are all leaving you.* Sometimes it softened: *I won’t.* But that only made it worse.

He tried telling someone. They told him it was foresight. They praised him for it. They made him perform predictions at community gatherings. They said he was special, chosen, blessed. The praise hollowed him out faster than fear ever had.

Loneliness entered not as emptiness but as pressure—a fullness of unscreamed things.

By sixteen, he was exhausted by vigilance. The voice had become his partner in a dance he never agreed to. It warned him of approaching storms before clouds formed. It told him when someone would betray him, often correctly. Failure confirmed danger; success confirmed obligation. He no longer knew which thoughts were his.

One night, unable to sleep inside his own skull, he did something desperate. He thrust his hand into the darkness above his bed, fingers reaching through a place that felt too cold, too thick, too *occupied*. Something unseen examined him, patient and impartial. The boy froze. Awaiting judgment. But no judgment came—only assessment, as if determining whether he would clang or remain silent.

He withdrew his hand trembling. Something had shifted. The world felt thinner now. And himself thicker, denser, as though filled with a sound not yet sounded.

Days passed. Then weeks. The voice stopped fighting him. It began *synchronizing* with him, aligning their breaths, matching their internal rhythms. His body learned to anticipate the anticipations. His soul unthreaded. His thoughts braided with a presence that was either alien or a part of himself finally waking.

He drifted through life functionally, mechanically. People said he seemed calmer. They praised him for his new confidence, mistaking numbness for peace. The boy smiled politely. It was easier than explaining that he hadn’t felt like a person for months.

He avoided mirrors. He feared the reflection would answer back.

But the sound kept building.

It gathered in his bones, in his teeth, in the long corridor behind his eyes. Silence became heavy, charged. He could feel the second *Clang* coiling inside his chest, waiting for alignment, timing its release like a predator learning when to strike.

One morning, standing on the crest of the hill overlooking the valley, he stopped walking. Stopped breathing. Stopped pretending.

His mind was quiet.

The voice was quiet.

For the first time in years, he felt neither guided nor chased.

He felt… positioned.

Something opened behind his sternum—an aperture, a hinge. The world seemed to inhale around him, trees bowing slightly, air thickening. The boy lifted his chin, sensing the exact sliver of space where his old self lived, a thin membrane between who he had been and what he was about to become.

He whispered, “I know you.”

The silence answered. Not with words. With acknowledgment. With readiness.

The boy closed his eyes. His entire life compressed into a single breath.

Then—

**cl’clang.**

It was quiet.

Quieter than memory.

But final.

The boy exhaled the last of who he had been. The new presence settled fully, seamlessly. He did not resist. He did not mourn. He did not ask what he had become.

He simply stood there, steady, hollow, radiant with unbearable clarity.

Not lonely.

Not human.

Never again waiting for the next sound.

Because now *he* was the one who made it.

On What Disconcerts Me (Personally) About Garnet’s Credibility as a Hero to Society

First, let me say this clearly: I don’t dislike Garnet. I’m not here to attack her, diminish her symbolism, or rob anyone of what she’s meant to them. If you love her, I respect that—and I’ve loved parts of her too.

But I do carry a persistent discomfort with how she was introduced and framed, especially in the first season. And it’s stayed with me—not as a nitpick, but as a deeper, unresolved twinge. This is my attempt to explain that feeling, not as a judgment from above, but from inside a relationship that felt skewed from the start.

💎 Garnet as Mystery, Me as Unwitting Participant

From the outset, Garnet is a mystery. She’s stoic, powerful, composed. We’re led to believe that’s the whole of her identity—a pillar. But over time, we learn she’s not one person, but two: Ruby and Sapphire, fused.

This reveal is emotional, dramatic, and for many, beautiful. But for me, it came with a subtle sting:

I realized I had been speaking to—and bonding with—two people without knowing it.

Not because they told me late.

Because they didn’t tell me at all.

🧠 What That Did to My Trust

I know fusion is metaphorical: for love, queerness, unity, even neurodivergent collectivity. I’m not against any of those things. But what troubled me wasn’t the metaphor—it was the withholding.

There’s a difference between someone who isn’t ready to disclose something, and someone who is structurally positioned not to have to. Garnet is that latter type. She moves through the world with an assumed singular identity, while knowing that’s not the full truth.

And in real life, when someone chooses to let you engage with a version of them that omits how many people they actually are—or have fused into—that isn’t just mystery. That’s misrepresentation.

Especially when the truth eventually does come out, but on their terms, and only once it’s safe or dramatically satisfying for them—not when it would’ve been respectful to those around them.

👣 I’m Not Saying She Shouldn’t Exist. I’m Saying She Should’ve Told Me Who I Was Meeting.

If Garnet had said early on:

“I’m two people, but I’m choosing to show up as one—until I’m ready to explain more,”

I would’ve felt entirely differently. I would’ve respected the boundary. I would've chosen how to relate.

But instead, the story made me complicit in someone else’s secret. And that made the later reveal bittersweet—not because of who she was, but because of how I wasn’t given the chance to know her fully from the beginning.

🎭 On Muppet Men and Bit-Truths

Garnet reminded me of something from old cartoons—when several characters climb into a trench coat and pretend to be one adult. It’s played for laughs. But only because nobody really believes it.

With Garnet, it wasn’t a joke. It was a core relationship dynamic: me, as the viewer (or Steven), unknowingly being asked to bond with a person who is not one, without being told so.

And if that dynamic played out in real life—if someone introduced themselves as a fused being without context, clarity, or consent—I’d walk away feeling manipulated. Not because of what they are. But because of what they hid, and how long they expected others to play along unknowingly.

💬 Fusion, Passing, and the Fear of Disclosure

This touches on something broader: passing, and the ethics of delayed disclosure. We still live in a world where disclosing parts of oneself—gender, neurotype, relationship status, plurality, health—can be terrifying. People do delay disclosure for safety.

But Garnet isn’t doing that. She’s celebrated, central, revered. She’s not hiding out of fear—she’s withholding out of control. She doesn’t have to tell us, and the story lets that feel noble.

I think that’s a missed opportunity. Being seen is beautiful. But being honest about what people are seeing? That’s the hard, heroic work. Garnet doesn’t do it until the moment is optimized for emotional effect—not mutual trust.

✨ In Conclusion: She’s Powerful, But Not My Hero

This doesn’t make Garnet a villain. But it makes her, to me, a cautionary figure, not a moral one. Her strength is admirable. Her love is real. But her way of managing others’ access to the truth of who she is? That’s not someone I want to model my ethics after.

Others can—and should—feel differently.

But I needed to say this out loud, finally.

To clarify that my discomfort isn’t arbitrary or edgy. It’s just personal.

My life was such a bleary place

Was out-align even when I'd trace

Was outta time with three hands on my face

Hey hell these boots they lost the chase

HEY HELL, I've gotten lost in plainsong

HEY HELL, I've been stalled in a throng

HEY HELL, I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

Hey hell hey hell

Wells dry hey hell hey hell

Fish fry hey hell hey hell

Bring a 'quet of immortelle

Hey hell hey hell

I's a'be a breakin' swell—

HEY HELL— I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

Ghost bottles threw me to the ground

The birds that outflew me, weren't even strong

I'm just a sad coyote that sings an awful song

But hey hell my quarter ain't up, s'just nearly gone

HEY HELL, I've tested wrong, so wrong

HEY HELL, I got spent so good— I'm gone!

HEY HELL, I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

Hey hell hey hell

Wells dry hey hell hey hell

Fish fry hey hell hey hell

Bring a 'quet of immortelle

Hey hell hey hell

I's a'be a breakin' swell—

HEY HELL— I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

I push an asp into cracks of despair

The wind’s got secrets but that bitch don’t share

An angel says, "beware—" but I don't know where

Oh hey hell I’ve stopped knowing how to care

HEY HELL, I've tested wrong, so wrong

HEY HELL, I got spent so good— I'm gone!

HEY HELL, I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

Hey hell hey hell

Wells dry hey hell hey hell

Fish fry hey hell hey hell

Bring a 'quet of immortelle

Hey hell hey hell

I's a'be a breakin' swell—

HEY HELL— I BEEN DRY TOO LONG

Wells dry... hell... hell...

Fish fry... hell... hell...

I guess I'll just drink when I die

I SAID "I'LL JUST DRINK WHEN I DIE"

Hey hell

Hey hell

Hey hell

Hey—

A'hey hell

Hey hell

Hey hell

Hey— Hey— Hey

Gotten lost in plainsong

Stalled-up inside a throng

Done tested wrong, so wrong

Got spent so good... so good I'm gone...

I don't deserve you.

I make a cold, a sour stew.

I really don't deserve you.

I spill most of the ice I chew.

I snore. I sigh. I mumble.

I fuss. I pry. I jeer.

I do every awful little thing—

Except disappear.

I don't deserve you.

I hog the bathroom (and the covers!)

I don't deserve you.

I'm bad with brothers (and with lovers!)

I drum. I hum. I whistle.

I slum. I cry. I fear.

I do every awful little thing—

Except disappear.

I'm not a singer, or a dancer.

I'm not a hype man or a clown.

You can trust me. I will still be here

When the curtains all are down.

Yes, I snore, sigh and mumble.

I fuss, pry and jeer.

And I drum, hum and whistle

And I slum, I cry and fear.

I may look a little wizened

But— I swear, I'm no magician

My only tricks are fiddlesticks

I may do every awful little thing

I may forget this, that and the other thing

I may be nothing like the world's best guy...

But I'll stick around to try...

I do every awful little thing—

Except disappear.

I may look a little wizened

But— please don't call me a magician

And let m'make this one thing clear.

You can trust me. I'll still be here.

I do every awful little thing—

Except disappear.

And for my next trick—

I'll be staying here.

I really don't deserve you

But I'm staying here.

I do every awful little thing—

Well, the laws about the only thing she EVER

did right in her life say

"Mm, ha!"

Say, I've lost a lotta, mm, ha

I've lost a LOTTA socks

I forget my best friend's name

I snap before I bend sometimes

And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know

I'm riper on the rind some rhymes

And yeah, yeah, yeah I know

Me saying, "eh, it's all the same"

Does not quite make it so

But, "hey, just so ya'know

I do not flummox everything

Looky right here, n'doncha know—

I'm still wearing the ring!"

Because the ring, the ring, the ring (the ring, the ring)

It was the thing, the thing, the thing (it was the only thing)

And I let it ring

So yeah, the only, one, little thing

I done so right — I done it the best

Was the time my bubby asked for me...

And I said, "yes"

And yeah, yeah, yeah I know

Me saying, "well, just goes to show"

Does not make all the dumb, dunce, dilly-dilly-doo-dah things I do, the damn' quid-pro-quo

But, HEY! LOOKY RIGHT HERE! HA!

I'm still wearing the ring!

Because the ring, the ring, the ring (the ring, the ring)

It was the thing, the thing, the thing (it was the only thing)

So I let it ring

Yeah, hey, just so ya'know (still wearing the, still wearing the—)

I do not flummox everything (still wearing the, still wearing the—)

Looky right here, n'doncha know— (OH, OH)

I'm still wearing the— (OH, OH, OH)

Still wearing the ring!

So I've lost a lotta socks (well, who cares?)

And I forgot my best friend's name (well, it's theirs!)

And yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah I know

Me saying, "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah"

Can't turn things that are not, into things that are so (OH, oh)

But, "hey, just so ya'know

I only flummox ALMOST everything

Looky right here, n'doncha know—

I'm still wearing the ring!"

Doncha know I'm still wearing the ring?

Doncha know I'm still wearing the ring?

Because the ring, the ring, the ring (the ring, the ring)

It was the thing, the thing, the thing (it was the only thing)

Ryder, git on up.

Levi, git on up.

Ezekiel, git on up.

Hollis, git on up.

Bishop?

Bishop! Get the fudge on up!

WELCOME TO STAGE ONE:

Ryder, git on up git on up

Levi, git on up git on up

Ezekiel, git on up git on up

Hollis, git on up git on up

Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop

Get the fudge on up!

Ryder git on up the sun is on the rise

Levi git on up there's lightning in the skies

Ezekiel git on up your boots ain't got no dust

Hollis git on up there's no time to adjust

Bishop oh Bishop

You're still counting sheep

Bishop oh Bishop

This train don’t wait for sleep

Git on up git on up

The wheels are turning fast

Git on up git on up

This day ain't made to last

Git on up git on up

The whistle’s blowing loud

Bishop git on up

Shake the stars out of that shroud

Next stop, Laramie.

Now approaching destination.

*digga digga psshhhhh*

Last call for Laramie! *woooo-wooo*

Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop Bishop

Get the fudge on up!

STAGE TWO:

Git on up git on up

The wheels are turning fast

Git on up git on up git on up

This day ain't made to last

Git on up git on up git on up

The whistle’s blowing loud

Bishop git on up

Shake the stars out of that shroud

Next stop, Denver.

Now approaching destination.

*digga digga psshhhhh*

Last call for Denver! *woooo-wooo*

Git git git git git git git on up git on up

The wheels are turning fast

Git git git git git git git on up

This day ain't made to last

Git git git git git git git on up

The whistle’s blowing loud

Bishop git on up

Shake the stars out of that shroud

I didn’t mean to haunt ya but baby here I stand

You buried the best of me but I slipped through your hands

You liked your men dusty but I’m fresh from the flame

Call me dead again and I’ll put blush in your name

Next stop, Tombstone.

Now approaching destination.

*digga digga psshhhhh*

Last call for Tombstone! *woooo-wooo*

You liked your men dusty? Well, we tickle with shame—

Bishop oh Bishop (Bishop oh Bishop)

Bishop oh Bishop

Git on up git on up

The wheels are turning fast

Git on up git on up

This day ain't made to last

Git on up git on up

The whistle’s blowing loud

Bishop git on up

Shake the stars out of that shroud

Git on up git git git git git git on up.

Git git git on up.

Next stop, Santa Fe.

Now approaching destination.

*digga digga psshhhhh*

Last call for Santa Fe! *woooo-wooo*

Git on up git on up

Git on up git on up

Git on up git on up

Bishop git on up

Nice call, Marfa.

Bishop oh Bishop

No time to delay

Bishop oh Bishop

We’ve got a ghostly getaway

Git on up git on up

Git on up git on up

Git on up git on up

Bishop git on up

Without knowing a thing

A bear waits for spring

A bird waits to sing

So whether good news... or bad

Whether blythe truth... or sad

I'd buy the bite of the bullet

With the bank of the sting

I'm not a bear or a bird

I just wanna know one thing...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me?

I swear I'd forget all the rest of everything

If you'd wait for me.

Without owning a thing

A bee will buzz each mornin', (accordin')

A firefly will shine affording, (affording)

So, Weather, slight cloud... or gray

Whichever next flies by... today

I'd buy the bite of the bullet

With the bank of the sting

I'm not a bee or a fly

I just wanna know one thing...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me?

I swear I'd forget all the rest of everything

If you'd wait for me.

I wanna know!

I've gotta know!

It's not derogative!

It's my—no, oh, you don't—

I said, I wanna know!

I've gotta know.

It's not derogative!

It's my—no, oh you don't—

A bear (waits for spring)

A bird (waits to sing)

A bee (will buzz each day)

A firefly (will burn away...)

BUT I WANNA KNOW!

I'VE GOTTA KNOW!

IT'S NOT DEROGATIVE!

It's my prerogative.

I'd buy the bite (bank the sting)

I'm not a bear (just wanna know one thing)

Whether it's right (or wrong, according)

I'm not a bird (just wanna know one thing)

I ain't slight (I ain't aloft on a wing)

I ain't contrite (just for doing my thing)

I'm not a bee (I hate having to sting)

I'm not a fly (but I will try for one thing....)

I wanna know...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me?

I wanna know...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me? (Wait for me!)

I wanna know...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me?

I wanna know...

If you'd wait for me!

Will you wait for me?

I swear I'd forget all the rest of everything

It's like a pinky-finger fang

A tiny bite

A wild slang

What do you even do with that?

Is it a treasure or a trap?

Pinky-finger fang!

Sting-stang

Wild little thing

But it’s moreso like a toe

Dang!

Stinky toe

What d'ya know?

Ooo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Except it’s where a toe don’t go

A rebel tooth that stole the show

Flame

Fickle flame

Pinky fang

Doin’ its own outlaw thang

Pinky-finger fang!

Sting-stang

Wild little thing

But it’s moreso like a toe

Dang

Stinky toe

What d'ya know?

Ooo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

It's like a pinky-finger fang.

It's going off with a bang.

What do you even do with a spur?

Why do they even occur?

It's a pinky-finger fang... (Fang! Sting-stang, pink-finger fang)

But it's moreso like a toe... (Toe! What d'ya know? Dang, stinky toe)

OK, a rank, pinky-toe fang... (Flame! Fickle the flame, pink, stinky fang)

Except it's where a toe don't go.

It's like a pink-finger fang.

It's going off—*BANG!*

Pinky-finger fang!

Sting-stang

Wild little thing

But it’s moreso like a toe

Dang

Stinky toe

What d'ya know?

Ooo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Except it's where a toe don't go!

Ooo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

It's like a pink-finger fang.

What goes up must find the ground, (BOY!)

What was lost might still be found

But here I stand

A question burning

Does the wheel stop its turning?

I've seen wings clipped from a plane

And honey fade from the bee's refrain

I scoff

Oh I scoff

At the loss

Every loss

Tie it tight

Don't let it rot

I won’t blot the untied knot

I’ve watched the crow

Forget its call

I’ve seen the hunter

Miss it all

If fate keeps knocking, let it pound

I’ll laugh so loud it shakes the ground

What’s undone can stay that way

I don’t kneel, and I don’t pray

I scoff

Oh I scoff

At the loss

Every loss

Tie it tight

Don't let it rot

I won’t blot the untied knot

Breath to night

Dawn to flame

Candles quiver

Call my name

On mee-maw's cake I lean in slow

But I laugh loud and let it go

I've seen the sting fall from the fight

And shadows lose their grip on night

I scoff

Oh I scoff

At the loss

Every loss

Tie it tight

Don't let it rot

I won’t blot the untied knot

I've spit on tombstones, danced on graves

Mocked the dark that silence craves

If death’s a beast, then let it bite —

I'LL BARE MY TEETH, I’LL BITE BACK TWICE!

So strike your match, I’ll drink the flame, (I'll drink the flame)

Carve your curse, I’ll wear the name. (I'll walk away)

The wheel can break, the stars can drop, (How's that for burning?)

But I won’t beg, *Haaah!*, and I won’t stop. (YEAH STRIKE YOUR MATCH!)

Call it sin, call it pride, (I'll call it living when I’ve died)

I scoff

Oh I scoff

At the loss

Every loss, (every loss)

Tie tigh-high-high-high-high-E-I, SO TIGHT!

Don't let it rot

The untied knot