Loneliness like smoke slips beneath the door
chocking out the daylight that we used to kneel and pray for.
So we pull over hoods up so that all the world won't see
the fear that drags our feet right back to the liquor store.
Lie to me, just let me lie - much rather die in here
than go outside with a sense of place that we define with xenophobia and drawn blind eyes.
Fluorescent crosses shine in babies' eyes. Instruct them one and all how to be victimized.
With a sense of place that we define
by how the streets are scarred beneath the black and white liquor sign.
Free ways strangle us, our addictions estrange us.
Addicted to a place that gives the deepest cuts,
that cuts the place that we call home and bleeds our misery dry.
There must be more to living here than casting off our dreams to watch them die.
They say there's no there here, but I know, yes I know, it is in the basement spilling onto the sidewalk.
It's in the children as they scream for your blood.
