Sunday I am young and wild, Monday I go lame. Tuesday I start twitching, Wednesday I'm insane. Thursday I lay dying, Friday I'm quite dead. Saturday I get carried away by things better left unsaid. But heaven ain't no place, brother, and love ain't no word sister. And prison ain't no building made of iron bars and stone. You can seek the rhyme and reason, but in the realm of the unknown you won't catch no true reflections in that "Alabama Chrome." For there's mountains you will scale with ease, yet molehills where you stumble. Sins you so regret and yet other sins that you enjoy. Harps can beg forgiveness, and the guitars can scream pain, but the contradictions are larger than any language can explain. For in the secret territory where the preachers come to steal the jewel of your heart, for they have no treasure of their own, there lies a sacred window, in your hand the perfect stone. You'd throw it, but you arms are bound 'round with that "Alabama Chrome." The heat it is withering, humidity smothering. Strip of silver tape, a sly lie covering dent in the side of the redneck ride. Going deep for the Crimson Tide. Yeah! Gonna bump to the thump of the Selma slammer. Wanna jump up and down like a wack jackhammer. Sing a little 'Sweet Home Alabama' - Jimmy gimme wink like a big flimflammer. Bone tired and so weary of treating truth as a lie, I been hunkered down in the bunker of some fools alibi. Squint harder you will see the slim tether of the saints. It's whipping wild in the hurricane of all that is and all that ain't. 'Cause there's angels in the shed mother and spiders in the bed brother and ghosts inside my head father, no I am not alone. My mind is teeth without a mouth, my thoughts are marrow without bone. My eyes are blinded by a thousand layers of that god damn "Alabama Chrome."
Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
