Emergency Broadcast Syndrome

Emergency Broadcast Syndrome - Every Time I Die

I hate this city

Reposition the phantom rigged reflective tape

Situated like a makeshift antenna grinning like tinfoil

We're losing reception we can't pick up the game

I should be discontinued I am a broadcasting embarrassment

Hiss like the d**ned

Decoding the transmitted pulse that dispatch from her lips

I am not receiving a sign that says I am

Still here anymore

Do you hear me

Am I coming through at all

Is any of this making sense

Is any of this making sense

Is any of this making sense to you

You've got a ghost on your hands

A televisual image only partially clear

I wish we'd all just stop talking at once

Scrambled phantom

Spitting and cursing from the scrapheap we were on

You should have lost your cool

You should have lost your cool