How do you kill the moon?
When it’s over your shoulder shining on you till it’s dead
You drive in your car ever faster
Down ancient roads, fueled by the maps in your head

There’s and old lady, she’s a collector
And the town where she sleeps is her bed
She scoops up some dirt into a plastic bag so she will never forget she was there

Out on the highway there are two men in suits
With bright yellow stars on their chests
There covered in ashes from head to toe this is a memory that she always tried to forget

And all of her friends they’re stored in boxes up on the shelf
And she never really had the chance to tell them that she loved them
Or anything of the sort

I suppose they bent the rules
Buried the lies and painted us fools
So I guess it’s true this town is full of rumors
Steady old man they’ve got no sense of humor.