Sustain Let ring; slide into verse, and then repeat. Repeat it endlessly, stretching strings of inversion across me. Girls fall in love with three-minute moments and leanness and burdens in a rock poet. And Don Robert Reefer, here, Vocals & Guitar, kisses with meter and fucks with his scars: “I blued, and you blurred the thoughts I split with a guitar pick. But all your thoughts sound acoustic, and all your songs are played stupid. I’m low on cash, low in fat, high in need and big on facts. Words are the perfect kind of rain, but eyes could not change the weather of your heart. So I give her up to the sustain. I said I gave you up to the sustain.” Carbon