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The Russian Futurists

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The Russian Futurists

Our Pen's Out Of Ink

You said our pen's out of ink, I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think
When we died in our sleep no on had time to weep
Or make a great big fuss about you or me or us
We were left all alone, and they buried our bones
In the dirt, in the cold and we sleep to the sound
Of the trees getting old in the deep underground
You said our pen's out of ink, I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think
When we died in that storm we watched funnel clouds form
And when they touched the earth, things couldn't get much worse
We wrote letters to ghosts, but what mattered the most
We were there to enjoy when it battered the coast
You said our pen's out of ink, I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think