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Pope
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Parties
Blame it on the weather; I'm not that clever
This party isn't much fun
Every ones sarcastic wrap them in plastic
You don't need any one
Any one
The conversation lingers on the tip of a finger
The mechanisms broke
His poetry will eat you then digest you
There really isn't much hope
Isn't much hope
Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin against my cheek makes me weak
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Put it in ignition making bad decisions
She begins to smoke
Lights start flashing she's over reacting
This has got to be a joke
Be a joke
Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin agents my cheek makes me weak
'You're making a scene'
Every one is clever in this arctic weather
This party isn't much fun
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