---

I was drinking at the Sheraton
Too myself to sleep again
A guy said he’d buy me a shot
He sang a couple verses of
“Thank you for your service”
I nodded in all the right spots
It didn’t go well
He had bibles to sell
I blame the whole thing on him
He just wouldn’t hear it
So, full of holy spirit,
I landed one square on his chin

Take me back home, I ain’t no good round here anymore
Holding a match, soaked in gas
With the fire of hell at my core
I try my best to fake it
But I ain’t what I was before
Take me back home to the war

Woah – oh – oh

I used to make the bullets sing
Lord of damn near everything
Now I’m buying shoes at the mall
When the third string receiver
For the local Ivy feeder
Stops ringing me up to take a call
Only I took offense
Which made no kind of sense
But then, neither does anything these days
By the time the guard arrived
The kid had been revived
Though I never did manage to pay

Take me back home, I ain’t no good round here anymore
Holding a match, soaked in gas
With the fire of hell at my core
I try my best to fake it
But I ain’t what I was before
Take me back home to the war

Woah – oh – oh

Take me back home, I ain’t no good round here anymore
Holding a match, soaked in gas
With the fire of hell at my core
I try my best to fake it
But I ain’t what I was before
Take me back home to the war

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.