Days after the fame, after the name
It's Cobain's calendar, the dying out
But not the fading out
Bullet wounds, only robbers
Mom tola me get some,
Now we calculating but can't add up
The sequences we came after
Refused to come, we went
Not sent, bent, like a banana stem
Pulled down from the hem.
We pray we rest in piece
With our shattered remains
Keeping all we've ever been through
In a lie, no one can believe
It's more surreal than
These photographs
But they can't get the picture
