Into It. Over It.

Up Up Done Done

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My feet are sore and my throat is hoarse from stomping and singing through every single chorus.
I patiently grew my beard out for this occasion, paying some sort of tribute with bated anticipation for your last show.
You might insist that the name is bad but
I'm not sure that we knew what we had -- resting in a software code and a place where the bar's been set with you and me trying to sing a lyric that goes: "
What the crap!" ...but it never works.
But, you don't need any of us tonight.
You don't need us to call it quits.
My feet are sore and my throat is hoarse.
I stomped and sang all through every single chorus.

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Into It. Over It. en Septiembre