RAF Lyrics

Hey

Is there anyone to come out curbside

And bat their booted feet in the pothole hell

I'll hold tight until you arrive to tell you

I still see rats in their feta again

Might try bites in the life of the thighs

Of whatever they can tighten

Their gruddy gripping rattling mitts or sniffs on

Plus a pack of parakeet playthings

Squawking popular hate sayings

At dried bloodied ear

So near at shelf of shoulder

Make me less than Machiavellian

Maybe then I'll mend all this hollow solace

Go hallway bound

Have found my way out

Lit red exit

Hey

Is there anyone to come out curbside

And bat their booted feet in the pothole hell

I'll hold tight until you arrive to tell

I still see rats in their feta again

Might try bites in the life of the thighs

Of whatever they can tighten

Their gruddy gripping rattling mitts or sniffs on

Plus a pack of parakeet playthings

Squawking popular hate sayings

At dried bloodied ear

So near at shelf of shoulder

Make me less than Machiavellian

Maybe then I'll mend all this hollow solace

Go hallway bound

Have found my way out

Lit red exit

Hey

Is there anyone to come out curbside

And bat their booted feet in the pothole hell

I'll hold tight until you arrive to tell you

I still see rats in their feta again

Might try bites in the life of the thighs

Of whatever they can tighten

Their gruddy gripping rattling mitts or sniffs on

Plus a pack of parakeet playthings

Squawking popular hate sayings

At dried bloodied ear

So near at shelf of shoulder

Make me less than Machiavellian

Maybe then I'll mend all this hollow solace

Go hallway bound

Have found my way out

Lit red exit

Hey

Is there anyone to come out curbside

And bat their booted feet in the pothole hell

I'll hold tight until you arrive to tell you

There's nothing

I still see rats in their feta again

There's nothing

Might try bites in the life of the thighs

There's no one online

Of whatever they can tighten

I've just had my ten hours of self forced sleep

Their gruddy gripping rattling mitts or sniffs on

I'm not hungry

Plus a pack of parakeet playthings

Everyone's in bed and I can't be loud

Squawking popular hate sayings

I'm not generating any money

At dried bloodied ear

So near at shelf of shoulder

Make me less than Machiavellian

Maybe then I'll mend all this hollow solace

Go hallway bound

Have found my way out

Lit red exit

Hey

Is there anyone to come out curbside

And bat their booted feet in the pothole hell

I'll hold tight until you arrive to tell