Boys

We're going out in those fucked up vans I've had the last four years And I miss those boys with their beach dirty brown hair We're growing up without a choice We're running out without a point Of making too much noise, When will it stop? We're all flirting with the same four girls That's probably not a good idea But what's the fun if you're not Getting in trouble? These days are coming to an end These ties are breaking at their ends I just worry, that I'm making it worse