Lucy Rose:
It's my constant calamities
And overcooked stubborness ways
Means I'm hearing dialtones dialtones
It's my bus stop reality
Outwardly, everything's fine
But I'm just hearing dialtones dialtones

Ghostpoet:
Well I try to work it out
But nothing seems to satisfy
The taste in my mouth now
Bitter like old tea
And unloved Grandmas
And opened up a jam jar
Of past pain narratives
That I can still shut
So slanging slamming screams
Just bounce round the living room
And eyes go red like brake lights right
But ain't no sudden hopes or
Bolts out the blue
I'm left in a state of hue, true, true

Ghostpoet:
Hmm
Ain't spoke maybe hmm, about six months
And stand up similar to Weston's parts
So I plus one scenarios and sit back and watch
And partnered by rouge or fresh saw tooth
And need some sugar like a wine gum fiend
So spring black humour try and crowbar a smile
And it works for a while
But forecast's bleak
Dark clouds circling
Rain then sleet

Ghostpoet & Lucy Rose:
So if I try and call will you pick up?
Or will our silly games never let up?
I'm trying out some olive branch tactics