If I could see past these treesnthat stand like sticks waiting to be burned.nnAnd if these signs on these streetsnlived up to their prestige then perhaps itnwouldn’t get worse.nnAnd tumbleweeds have come to sweepnThis town to shredsnnAnd tumbleweeds have come to sweepnThis town to shredsnnThe shadows have a glorious timenCreating myths of bustling livesnTo make up for whose moved outnnAnd with the curse of ghosts that roam in mallsnAnd with a population stuck answering callsnWho can blame them for moving out?nnAnd tumbleweeds have come to sweepnThis town to shredsnnAnd tumbleweeds have come to sweepnThis town to shredsn