we should have died years ago
in a gunfight at dawn in some dusty town
with our mouths full of blood
and our hearts full of bats and vengeance and rage
the doctors poked and the nurses prodded
and the devil squeezed our throats as we slept
but we never stopping moving
until there was nothing left but the bones of our ghosts
and a single, throbbing pulse
hundred thousand hearts beating in time
a call to arms
a corps of drums
it was dark, but I could hear you smiling
when you looked back fondly on the time we spent together
holding hands with the dead, ever marching forward
through fire and dirt and cold
it seemed like forever, and maybe it was.
I'm still not sure how we made it
or why I'm not dead
but when the doctors gave up
and the Devil wouldn't take us
I guess our bad luck ran out, because here we are:
children made of neon spraypaint,
rusted old muscle cars,
and rock and roll.
I guess we'll just keep running.
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