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The Windupdeads
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Your Limits
When he surprised you, you mistook him for God, so you gave him your heart.
So he thanked you then got up on his feet and turned the radio on.
And the song got stuck into your head.
And it floated around in there.
All of the songs, yeah the pretty ones,
they mean nothing now.
And the pictures you had are thrown in the trash,
they mean nothing now.
And you don't need eight hours of sleep,
it means nothing now.
And the signs that you show only grows and grows,
it means nothing now.
He had a painting, of a man on a bench, resting his head in his hands.
And it reminded you, of the place you grew up, so he gave it to you.
And you still have it somewhere.
But you haven't looked for years.
All of the songs, yeah the pretty ones,
they mean nothing now.
And the pictures you had are thrown in the trash,
they mean nothing now.
And you don't need eight hours of sleep,
it means nothing now.
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And the signs that you show only grows and grows,
it means nothing now.
What do the songs, forgotten and gone,
context is lost, not what it was.
Making no sense, don't know what it meant.
Where, when, and how,
means nothing now.
All of the songs, yeah the pretty ones,
they mean nothing now.
And the pictures you had are thrown in the trash,
they mean nothing now.
And you don't need eight hours of sleep,
it means nothing now.
And the signs that you show only grows and grows,
it means nothing now.
And the pictures you had are thrown in the trash,
they mean nothing now.
And you don't need eight hours of sleep,
it means nothing now.
Yet the signs that you show only grows and grows…
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