Morning is a desert
Where there is nothing to find except the echoes of yesterday
And would you walk on in spite of the echoes you once made?
I think you know but you really can't say
Morning is a desert
Every word a ba*tardized echo of truth's wicked games
So to a kick a flip I might need to find new words to say
Greg, stay over the board and tomorrow just skate or to hit a lip real hard
The spells come and then they fade
Every word a vacant room
All the places I have stayed
But to return is to the womb
Hear an echo, know it's late
I think you know that you really can't stay