My Wallpaper Looks Like Paint

Forty miles from the city. Sitting in traffic isn't fun.

Crucifix stabbed in soil, to a father from a son.

There's ghosts on the highway. I claim.

Dancing on the medians. Slamming breaks.

I'm forty miles from the city and this is the shit that's in my brain,

I need a whim. Something I can get caught up in.

I've got to get down to something. If I could sacrifice a little bit,

I will. Some of us are drinking coffee,

But how the hell could you read a paper. Probably headlines of fuel,

While the governments putting all the red tape down.

Wake up, I just woke up.

The revolution won't be televised, 'cause it's in the morning drive.