In a hundred years they'll find your head stuck in a hole
And the engineers will pull you out with a fishing pole
They'll find your book of dreams all unfulfilled and scribbled in red
And the hundred shoes the last fifty men left under your bed

Fear of stalling has left you crawling
For anything that would pin you down

And your epitaph said you burned a bridge with every kiss
And the architechts with blueprints for sex really were pissed
They said you wouldn't sit still long enough to kill your instabiale thirst
So how appropriately you were on your knees sucking up dirt

Fear of stalling has left you crawling
For anything that would pin you down