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Stepping up from the ghostly scene
by the manhole smoke machines
waiting for the coast to clear.
Playin' a tune with a tiny tone
on her ribcage xylophone
in a key that no one else can hear.
Sandie, what's that face about?
You've got so many rounds
yet to go,
and so many more nails to bend
before you reach the end
of the road.
Staring out through the window pane
at the pellets of pregnant rain
tapping out a drumroll down below.
Filling up all the cracks and dents
and high-fives in the hot cement
from the hands
you'll never get to know.
Oh Sandie, what's that face about?
You've got so many rounds
yet to go,
and so many more nails to bend
before you reach the end
of the road.
On a crystal night,
up on the canyon's side
I saw the western sky
turn to red.
But it couldn't touch the flames
burning up your brains
that I saw through the frames
in your head.
Sandie, what's that face about?
You've got so many rounds
yet to go,
and so many more nails to bend
before you reach the end
of the road.
