A Plateful Of Our Dead

Don't ever ask us to define our morals

Sometimes when fundamentals meet teenage heartbreak

Some of us or all of us; half-selves that love whole hopes

And hara-kiri heartbreak

There's almost nothing worse than never being real

Strained voices crying wolf when nobody can hear

If I had a gun I'd pump your ethics full of lead

If I believed in meat I'd eat a plateful of our dead

There's merit in construction when it's done with your own hands

There's beauty in destruction, resurrection, another chance

There's a you and I in union but just an I in our beliefs

There's a crashing plane with a banner that reads everyone's naïve

The only proof that I have that we shot and killed this horse

Is the sounds of whips on flesh and a bleeding heart remorse

When I'm In this state of reflection and you hand me whips

And two by fours I could never bring them down and beat the same horse as before

I'd rather kill a stupid flower and spread its seeds

Until a garden with our bullet-laden morals will be found