Industrial Town
Saturday, February 12th, 2011
(Steel)
A bunch of withered roses lie, a faded silhouette
Caught you jumpin’ in the deep end last night, but it hasn’t happened yet.
They’re tying up your body with some rusty Number 8 and they say,
Too early with your run, son.
Too early with your run.
A bunch of worn-out ockers, the local magistrate,
Go down...





























































