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 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 time it wont erase   all the times i hit erase   on every word you said to me   and just covered it up   like dogshit on a pretty city street   just to not piss off the neighbors   no wonder i cant sleep, i cant sleep   a song without a chorus,   this is my first attempt   cuz that would really bore us   and the title would go limp   but 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.. no fun   they’ll probably say this sucks   but i don’t really care   and i used the “gunshot” word   so it wont get on the air   while the rappers do a driveby   and smoke crack then praise the lord   while a white-bread singer songwriter   has to stand here looking bored   and while i’m at it, i should mention   that all the guns i used in my   songs were fake...   not real... plastic..   fuck... get real... blast it...   i still love you