hustlers, whores, in rooms galore, a sinking city's stink an arc of bar, a flesh bazaar, of diamonds, dust, and drink the jukebox jamming, the lions lambing, the jokers doing the dealing and queens are over jacks, remember that, or catch a beating
the night had come into her own, and i made the arc of bar my home beneath my clothes, just a bag of bones, under my skin, just skeletons i was rolling like a pair of dice, one for laws and one for lies but all of this i tried to hide, behind a glaze of sweat and fire
to some a mistress, to some a muse, something soft for something blue she sussed my needs out of my dreams, and baptized me in flesh that seethes then she lay me like a baby on bed of spanish moss and for her love, i would help the devil to steal christ right off the cross
i lay blame on the arc of bar, and the hundred proof in me but the arc, it blames the air, hundred percent humidity well at least those damned mosquitoes that fall flounder to the flood get a thimble full of whiskey with their paltry pint of blood (my blood)
this port of call, it ain't no port at all, but cap my cup and anchors up the jokers, they tease another hand, but they're out of luck cause i'm out of town and the sun, it’s like an omen, goading me toward the gospel but i got no plans at all, except a drink as soon as possible
some men offer confession, for their souls and grace of god for others, women offer mercy, and mosquitoes their applauseTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
