Three Mile Pilot - 97-MT lyrics

Burning screens Our fisting hands Our drive to steer When the ship comes in (you) the goat is dead 97 back hands 32 flats (brisks) of sheet metal 3 logs to the battering ram Stressing me blind 18 straightjackets and you can barely fit me into all of them (It's our fear) Not faucet, nor blood, nor drain, nor victim Just the indifference, not circumstantial Nor a full load of lead Not shedding nor peeler Not wire nor switch Dissension adjusting recollection to our powered fears 97, 32, 3 blind Where are we now That the goat is dead 20 cans of mustard gas An empty backyard Kids are gone The thinking tree with chrome leaves