Well there’s sand in my book
From writing on the beach
Trying to find a song for you
That the ocean can only reach
And this beach is getting wider
Than my train of thought is long
And each little grain of sand
Is probably some other asshole poets song
So i’ll try to get this right
Before the sunburn says i’m wrong
Says i’m wrong

I keep on shooting clever guns
That blow up in my face
And what good to say i’m sorry
When it’s time it won't erase
All the times I hit erase
On every word you said to me
Then I just covered it up
Like dogshit on a pretty city street
Just to not piss off the neighbors
You know it’s wonder I can't sleep, I can't sleep

Well a song without a chorus
You know this is my first attempt
Because that would only bore us
And the title would go limp
And all these words just keep on shooting
Out my pen just like a gun
And i’m aiming at your ears
Trying not to come undone
Cuz you love the smell of gunshots
And the company of one.. that’s no fun
Well they’ll probably say this sucks you know
But I don’t really care
And I used the “gunshot” word
So it won't get on the air
While those rappers do a driveby
And smoke crack and thank the lord
While this white-bread singer songwriter
Has had to stand here looking bored
While i’m at it, I should probably mention
That all the guns I used in my
Songs were fake…
Not real… they’re plastic..
Now fuck… get real… blast it…
I still love you