If this doesn't break you,
you're doing it wrong.
This is not a love song.
And this is not some hippie love fest.
It's a fest in fuckery, at best.
Don't harsh your mellow?
Aren't you a wishful fellow.
Don't mellow my harsh.
Go back to your dreams of a marsh.
Welcome to the desert.
Where we are hung out to dry,
Where you will cry,
Where part of you will die.
And in those moments of mortality,
And varying morality,
You may sense the totality,
Of this world and everything in it.
You know those piling levels of shit,
In porta-potties serviced by,
The dollar you claim should die,
All that you knew was a lie.
Floating off in this hot, dusty wind.
The desert gets to the core,
Our bodies, our egos, grow sore.
Welcome to the dark side of the desert.
Welcome to the breakdown.
Welcome to it.