In a hundred years they'll find your head stuck in a hole
And the engineers will pull you out with a fishing pole
They'll find your book of dreams all unfulfilled and scribbled in red
And the hundred shoes the last fifty men left under your bed
Fear of stalling has left you crawling
For anything that would pin you down
And your epitaph said you burned a bridge with every kiss
And the architechts with blueprints for s** really were pissed
They said you wouldn't sit still long enough to k** your instabiale thirst
So how appropriately you were on your knees s**ing up dirt
Fear of stalling has left you crawling
For anything that would pin you down