You'll never look as beautiful as underneath that buzzing streetlight
Shouting curse words at the night sky with tears streaming from your eyes
But in true classic fashion, I couldn't take cover fast enough
And the falling voices just fell back onto me
I said, "Things'll make more sense when we're back in California"
Yeah, I guess I don't make much sense when I'm not in California
But little did I know that you're composed entirely of cigarettes
And the angry vows you screamed that night were a symphony of empty threats
Oh, but you had my toes tappin, honey
And the melody is still stuck in my head
So I fear the only thing that'll let me get some sleep
Is the music box I found in your chest when we were lying in the street
But back on the coast, it seems your blood boils to electro beats
There's nothing classic about it, there's nothing classic about it
Your words are washing up on the beach
Please stop making sense, please stop making sense
I can't stand it
You said, "Love has this cruel habit of
Not lasting the night, not crossing state lines
So come on,
There are no sirens sounding,
There are no burning buildings falling around us,
So that's not love at all, no, not at all
So come on,
Your lungs aren't collapsing,
I mean, if you're still breathing,
Then really, come on now,
That's not love at all, no, not at all"
Your words are washing up on the beach
Please stop making sense, please stop making sense
I can't stand it