Wolves' town, eyes down, wired for sound. All these neophytes normalize the lights, swerving into sight. Bright aisles, bins and piles, succor for miles. Intercepted, uncorrected, you get away with it. Palpitations through the blood that you choose, and up in the flies, a curtain off-cue, so eager to fall and claim you. Cause there's a poison in your veins, rushing sick and blue, salt and sugar, the cursed residue. It takes the loudest of love to cut through. Fight's gone. Score's drawn, zero to one. Skip the hollow vows. Rat yourself out, for to speed the plow. Getting away with what you can't get away with.