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 probably 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 it's time it wont erase All the times I hit erase On every word you said to me Then I just covered it up Like dogshit on a pretty city street Just to not piss off the neighbors You know it's wonder I cant sleep, I cant sleep Well a song without a, You know this is my first attempt Because that would only bore us And the title would go limp And all 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. that's no fun Well they'll probably say this sucks you know But I don't really care And I used the "gunshot" word So it wont get on the air While those rappers do a driveby And smoke crack and thank the lord While this white-bread singer songwriter Has had to stand here looking bored While i'm at it, I should probably mention That all the guns I used in my Songs were fake... Not real... they're plastic. Now fuck... get real... blast it... I still love you