In the back of the skeleton of a bus
beaten with rust and the summer sun
but carrying noone
a box of letters lay just inside the door
but noone reads them anymore

what in the world would people do
without all the things they hold on to
they'll probably never know
everything comes with a price i hear
that heaven is nice this time of year
but i'll probably never go

we're all wearing around the people we know
and the places that we've been
but we lie in between
we try to be so hard in a soft world
as molten as the sun
the same as anyone

what in the world would people do
without all the things they hold on to
they'll probably never know
everything comes with a price i hear
that heaven is nice this time of year
but i'll probably never go