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