We’ve got hundred-proof blood, you and me,
Ain’t nothin’ gonna dilute us.
Hundred-proof, fire-breathing,
Growing up, driving through Kansas,
don’t see a lot of sky-line,
But they got these grain-elevators.
Ten-story concrete cylinders,
and on dry days when the chaff is thick,
takes just a single spark to send the whole thing up in smoke,
concrete takes a lot of pressure to burst–
tends to explode.
Hundred-proof blood, you and me.
Can’t get that phrase out of my head.
I dunno if I’ve told you this,
But you’ve got features rivers might carve,
Long graceful curves that take time and patience.
grain-elevators, more often than not,
put their own fires out,
all that force built up,
blows it,
but we’ve got hundred-proof blood, you and me,
fire-breathing.
Fact of it is,
you don’t drive down the road lookin’ for explosions,
the way you might chase after twisters,
and no one’s handling bread like it’s nitro.
They must have got there,
as the shit rolling off you,
rounded you out,
sanded you down,
you’ve got features rivers might carve.
It took time to make you.
Patience.
You must have such patience.
Driving down the road,
Modest Mouse on the radio,
and a grain elevator explodes.
Ain’t like I’m expecting it,
but bits of cement clip me,
and I’ve got hundred-proof blood, fire-breathing,
all these feilds catch fire–
You’ve got features a river might carve,
hundred-proof blood,
Flickin’ Zippos as you speak,
Startin’ wildfires–
Ain’t nothin’ gonna dilute us.
I just wanna hold your hand,
and maybe stare at the stars for a while,
while shit burns down around us.
