Disclaimer HomeDisclaimer Music Review ArchiveThe Airbag's Lipstick KissLyricsWillie's Off-Brand Web JournalPressFrequently Asked Qs. Get As!Desiccant Records: Do Not Eat!

Bombs by Night, Balloons by Morning: Lyrics

Disclaimer Guy Theme (instrumental) | Your Bird is Going to Fly Away | The Imaginary Thing | Clockwork Drudgery | Five Mile Hill | Life in Detail (Robert Palmer cover) | The Decipherment of Linear B | Billy Morgan (Men They Couldn't Hang cover) | Unopposed | Ultra XX Living Solely on XY | Bet She's Not Your Girlfriend (Pet Shop Boys cover) | Maybe Today He'll Explode | (Music from Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!!) | Why Are They Laughing? | Similar to Sugar Pill


Your bird is going to fly away.
Your bird is going to fly away.

It's dripping tears on your shoulder, but you're busy with destructive things.
You can't see the happiness it could bring.
It loves you, but there's an innocence you require to coexist,
and that's your antithesis, you're convinced.

Your bird is going to fly away.
Your bird is going to fly away.

How can you look into its eyes and say, "Screw you"?
It's the stupidest and the meanest thing you could do.
If you break this poor bird's heart, you might as well break its neck.
Its sweetness cannot withstand all your neglect.

Your bird is going to fly away.
Your bird is going to fly away, and you don't even care.


Maybe I'll throw myself down these stairs, just to see if anybody cares.
Would that be the healthy thing to do?
I think that you would just step over me or rifle through my pockets for money.
I wouldn't like that. Sometimes I don't like you.

Just a smile and a "Yeah, whatever" when I tell you you've been missed.
It's not too reassuring to see you clench your teeth and fists.
I think you think that I am playing games.
You know I think you're playing yours.
I'm worried that these games might soon turn into full-fledged wars.

And here we're looking at each other, staring until we both shed tears,
each trying to be the first to find the imaginary thing before it disappears.

Honesty can always be brutal, but silence can paralyze.
I'm powerless 'cause you say nothing and I can't find your eyes.
I think the question might have been one of trust, but my recollection's vague.
It swirls and transforms your indifference into the golden egg.


False starts and off-sides.
Incompetence and lies.
It never works out right.

Pouting and apathy.
The clockwork drudgery.
Plagued by fantasies.

I should never hope for anything.

Castrating jealousy.
Ashamed and guilty.
Withdraw in misery.

Wilt the Stilt and Galahad.
Last Year at Marienbad.
Hearts cry for what we had.

I should never hope for anything.


Can you see me at the bottom of Five Mile Hill,
alone while my mind punches holes in me like some self-destructive drill?
And I'm lying in a ditch, looking up at things better than me.
I want to scrub myself away.
Have I disgusted you sufficiently, or do you still think that you can help me up Five Mile Hill?

Can you see me from the top of Five Mile Hill?
I know you can, but I can't help wondering how much longer you will be so patient with me while I shake off these mental chains;
like a balloon dumping sandbags to let me float up past my pain to be with you,
what you deserve, on Five Mile Hill.

And my tectonic plates start to shift, dragging me farther down this cliff.
I feel guilty for asking your assistance, but Five Mile Hill offers too much resistance.

Would you see me at the bottom of Five Mile Hill?
This boundless landscape holds so much beauty- is your gaze fixed on me still?
I can't really tell. This canyon is too dense for me to see.
Reality's distorted and my senses have run away from me,
but I hope you've remained waiting for me on Five Mile Hill.


Names and faces I went to school with for twelve years are mercifully beginning to disappear.
This is a good sign: the malignant becoming benign.
Hosing out the carcasses between my drawbridge gears.

Delightful awkward silences between old friends signal our relationship's fizzling end.
You never knew me, so why feign familiarity?
I'm tossing my adolescence to the wind.

"I Will Remember You" was our class song, but Sarah's threat has since been proven wrong.
Memories I don't need; I'd rather have all the pain recede.
I've had these onion smells on my hands for too long.


Blading 'round in circles at the road's dead end.
Shooting at the net there's no one to defend.
I might sing quietly under my breath.
I might lose myself enough to laugh,
but I'll freeze and blush if I hear bikes coming 'round the bend.

I dream of someone who'll deflect away my goals.
Being undefeated's no fun when you're unopposed.
I'd love to lose or be challenged.
I'd love to shake hands and say, "Good game,"
but when I fantasize that way, it's hard to stay composed.

The popular kids' derision just makes me want to die.
My mom says, "Just ignore them."
"Thanks, Mom. I will," I lie.
I can't bear the pitying smiles of the condescending passersby.
I channel my frustration into slap shots 'cause I don't want to cry.


"Sacrificing our relationship at the altar of self-discovery."
Your worldly one-upmanship and brave struggles with recovery.
You're the Supreme Court of Beauty, which I'd see if I'd open my eyes.
But because I'm blind, you're just another ultra XX living solely on XY.

The fecal scent of burning martyr drips from your angel-pure pores.
Once again, my opinions are personal attacks and you metaphorically slam the door.
You're obviously on a deep spiritual journey, like The Celestine Prophecy prophesied.
But since we don't live in a kaleidoscope, you're an ultra XX living solely on XY.

Your every thought is important with many capital Is.
Only you can fathom the sacred Truth, which explains all the lies.
Your decisions affect no one else, though everyone's somehow affect you.
And the only fights you call childish are those in which you don't come through.

Surfaces are worthless; truth always burrows in entrails,
so you dig for meaning in street signs and spend hours painting your nails.
I'm immature, so you're calling it quits.
This after I've already said goodbye to the most enlightened suburban goddess
whose tiara-topped brain believes it's modest,
who burns her bra and then tightens her bodice, an ultra XX living solely on XY.


Before you go adding amendments to the Ten Commandments,
I hope that you will take a moment and try to understand this:
Your bullying casts suspicion on any efforts to be nice,
and saps any potential patience for your unsolicited advice.

We've tried to be civilized, but that didn't work at all.
You continue to antagonize, so we're watching for a fireball.
Maybe today he'll explode.

Your non-stop verbal harassment might cause others embarrassment,
but you seem to think that it makes you look infallible by comparison.
Nobody's interested in hearing you pontificate.
You might think you're breeding respect, but you're only breeding hate.

You take it out on everyone when things don't go your way.
You've left no other option but for us to hope and pray,
"Maybe today he'll explode."

We'd like you to mature as a person, but your arrogance only worsens.
You poke your nose in everywhere as if our souls need your nursing.
We don't know why you act this way, but we're too fed up to care.
Our good nature's decayed into fantasies of you dissolving in thin air.


You asked, "Why are they laughing?"
I squeezed your hand and my heart drowned out my ears.
"I don't know."
A bad sitcom actress and a one-note ODB
shouldn't be able to raise this much rage in me.

They haven't been through this the way we have-
especially the way you have.
They don't understand.
They turned it into a quirk, a punchline, maybe a thing to pity,
a synergetic movie-marketing device on Oprah.

Playing to the xenophobes, the Riverbottom Nightmare Band.
It's pain, but it's cute pain.
No more sympathetic than Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid.
No better than an ethnic slur.

A Christmas cross-section of suburbanites who think carpe diem translates to "Just do it."
Too shallow for mental torment, they let their emotions be dictated by the major and minor chords played by Hans Zimmer.


I can understand the suggestiveness of a jogger's swinging ponytail,
or wanting to hug a sad cashier to distract her from the hell that is retail.
But that crap is useless to me because next to you, everyone looks like zombies.
Your mind's as full as a Christmas Eve parking lot, but you're as focused and concise as I am overwrought.

Our love is no placebo, I know, although you're so similar to sugar pill.

When I make you laugh or smile, I feel like I just won the lottery.
Whenever you go away, I feel like a fried dashboard bee.
Whether we're snogging like two drunk teens or just silently reading magazines,
time itself seems to come alive and glow with all the radiance of your halo.

Only you make sense to me.
You're my northern star in a world where everyone acts like a bastardized sitar.
And sometimes everything feels like I'm viewing it through a spoon,
like during "The National Anthem" when I yearned to smash the moon.
But I like to think the reason that the world hurts like a fist
is that you and I have monopolized all the love that exists.

Before I met you, I assumed happiness was a chimera.
But you make me smile wider everyday, so thanks for showing me my error.

All lyrics copyright 2000-2001 Disclaimer/Desiccant Records: Do Not Eat! (BMI, except "Similar to Sugar Pill," BMI/Copyright Control)

All images, writing, sounds, and other content on this site copyright 1999-2005 Disclaimer/Desiccant Records: Do Not Eat! Nothing on this site may be used or reproduced without the permission of Disclaimer. Thanks for coming!