A Plateful Of Our Dead

Don't ever ask us to define our morals Sometimes when fundamentals meet teenage heartbreak Some of us are 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 my 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 around Until a garden with our bullet-laden morals will be found