Not In The Mob Paroles

Hands in pockets

and yes sometimes my facts are misconstrued,

but somehow my heels are always found pointing toward you.



I don't think I like the way you think

Stale ideas and inefficiency

but you're a knock-out visceral punch

goddamn, I'm seeing stars,

but heaped on steeple-top layers of shining disappointment
When I quiet my windmill arms

to raise my hand and call for war,

am I really just waiting for you to call on me?



I wish there was some note I could hit,

some pitch that I could bend

to make you turn your lofty head and look at me full on.