The Answer

Telegraphs are written through smiles 

Across cold rooms 

Becoming warm and emptied out places 

 

Made of fabric woven from memory 

Stretched beyond pain and fear 

It interferes with the picture we want to create 

So we wonder how do we cut that away 

There's a time table to death 

A millisecond until it all ends 

I refuse to live life in a coffin 

Every nail bent 

I can tell you the secret 

If you come close 

It's called equal value 

Back and forth 

Continually working at something 

If it's not equal 

Then find fifty plus fifty 

And it ain't ice cream 

If you know what I mean