Trap House Breakdown

Alan and Brandon packing up the bags

Saddled with the weight of the same old drags

Alan's looking at the damp on the wall

Wondering if anyone will answer when we call

Brandon's in the kitchen coughing on the smoke Twenty-four years and the

joke is still a joke

Sick of living in this fucking place Every single face is just

another closed gate Yeah,

we're sick of living in this fucking place We gotta run,

gotta move, gotta win the race

No more cracks in the ceiling tiles

We're driving past the state line,

counting up the miles Brandon's got the map,

Alan's got the key

Leaving behind the dust of this misery (let's go!)

Sick of living in this fucking place

Every single face is just another closed gate Yeah,

we're sick of living in this fucking place We gotta run,

gotta move, gotta win the race

We’re walking out the door

Not looking back no more (no more,

no more)

Sick of this place...

Yeah, Brandon, step on the gas

Alan, watch the road

We're gone