On a pub-crawl; Saturday night in a downtown fugue and if we died tonight, we wouldn’t be the only clichés on the six o’ clock news. And the best radio station in town is nothing but static And the heartbreaking hum of the road is soft and erratic. We all explode like ashes out the window of a matchbox car. Take it easy; if the cigarettes burn the exits then we’ll all be brave and fan the flames with new diseases until we change our habits. But I don’t believe in instinct, God I’m just a selfish fuck with a foreign concept in my mind, it’s a firing squad. We all explode like ashes out the window of a matchbox car. And the best radio station in town is nothing but static And the heartbreaking hum of the road is soft and erratic.