For those of you who didn't download the lyric sheet in the zipfile, here they are for you to read.

All Words By Ryan Noble. ©2008

A TOAST AT THE WONDERS' WAKE.
Before his brain was a smoke bomb, it was a screen. And what dynamic revelations graced every bloody scene. The light just right on pre-errata ephemera. The kid's wide world was barely a thousandth of America. But oh what wonders drowned when came the ache in our friend's growing bones. A thousand gorgeous girls drank a toast at their wake. They said, "Here's to our new home." Before his eyes became clouds, they were a sky. Empty as a canvas, but full of faux sunshine. Oh what hungers were born on the day the old ones passed out cold. A thousand gorgeous girls killed flutes of champagne. Darlings, where does the time go? Tonight, delusion dies. The veils we knelt to yesteryear are gone. That's right. The race is on. Let us hope we don't hold back too long. Any disbelief we still suspend, while once benign, will grow malignant. That's right. The old right was wrong. Let us hope we can rewrite the words to our own songs.
Before his brain was a smoke bomb, it was a screen. And what dynamic revelations graced every bloody scene. The light just right on pre-errata ephemera. The kid's wide world was barely a thousandth of America.

HEX ON MICROPHONE.
Listen, capricious crowd. You've so much space to move through. So why the expressionless, tilted skulls and languid demeanor? It's such a young night. Apart from the myriad routes to rapture and perma-parade of angels unnamed, what is there to wake up for? Hex on microphone. Can't drive the bulletin home. Pressing words through dead headphones. Lend me your absent ears. Lifeblood is not here to drown you. I can see animals in your eyes. Ravens of hunger tethered to streetlights. Staring at verges we ought to sail over. Hooked on subliminal pix of the life we refuse to capture. Hex on microphone. Can't drive the bulletin home. Pressing words through dead headphones. Take back your moth-eaten thrones. A crystal clear case for your lost mind: your senses have numbed to the drone of dead time. Can you even make out one fucking line? Gorgeous and glassed over darlings, I love you, but sometimes… Hark, my beloved friends. Without you I would cease existing, but don't try to tell me your passion's pending. Poison pretending it's flavor is life. Apart from the myriad routes to rapture and perma-parade of angels unnamed, what is there to get out of bed for?

THE ARCS OF EAGLES END IN SKELETONS.
I've been cataloguing slices of the death sensation from twitching flies to family funerals. Feeling everything from curious to crushed and back again. None of my cameras can focus on the shape. But gone is gone. Everybody comes to an end. The hearts of creatures are bent on not beating. Oceans will rise and fill the lungs of breathing animals. The arcs of eagles end in skeletons. Soon the sun will touch the ocean with a white-hot hand and boil the blood of every shark within. Cause gone is gone. Everybody comes to an end. The hearts of creatures are bent on not beating. So what song will you sing when that scythe starts to swing? And what until then? What until, human? Take this knife. Drive her home. The epitaph on fear's gravestone read: Here lies the wall. Here lie the lies, born in the womb, dead in the eyes. Cause gone is gone. Everybody comes to an end. The hearts of creatures are bent on not beating. You are I am mere sprouts in the skin of Earth. We will melt into her again.