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