all we know to do is play

from we are the garages (vol 3) by the garages

rippin bass by lambmower everythin else by fizzabelle

the sun, or at least whatever the sun is now is rising
and the moon, or whatever rock that is falls beyond the horizon
and the sunlight hits the pitches and stands, players and fans in the immaterial plane
and the fans, they pray, to the gods that the players they love don't end up in flames

my body, is wrapped in layers of sawdust and linen
they said, i was medically dead but somehow i'm still alive
my family, said that royalty shouldn't play blaseball, it is forbidden
but i was young, and didn't think that all my friends and family would die

now it's been a couple thousand years and blaseball's all i know
i've been looking in the eyes of gods, ever since the fall of rome
and maybe there's a chance, that it'll all end up some day
but from thirteen hundred bc to now, all we know to do is play

and i'll buy a bass guitar
get in a plane and go real far
settle down in the seattle in america
land of the free, that's where i'll be
i'll stand up proud on top of the mound
hear the crowd make sound and hope to the gods that it defends out my thoughts

i'm getting, a little bit old and little bit tired of this
it seems, that the thousands of years i've run from has caught up to me
it's hard, to play blaseball when you're easily soggable or flammable
i should have died, long ago, before mobile phones and roads, but i guess i'll never be free

cuz i'm stuck inside of a box of my own making
i should've died in 1325 bc as a king
whenever i think to leave, the gods just hold me back
they wave my contract in front of my eyes, they tell me the only way out is to die
and i know that is still a lie, cuz apparenlty people can be revived
and i cannot leave this unholy place, people running from base to base
people catching, dying, burning, crying, drowning, disintergrating
but from thirteen hundred bc to now, all we know to do is play