His father was a drinker And his mother cried in bed Folding John Wayne's T-shirts When the swingset hit his head The neighbors they adored him For his humor and his conversation Look underneath the house there Find the few living things Rotting fast in their sleep of the dead Twenty-seven people, even more They were boys with their cars, summer jobs Oh my God
Are you one of them?
He dressed up like a clown for them With his face paint white and red And on his best behavior In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all He'd kill ten thousand people With a sleight of his hand Running far, running fast to the dead He took off all their clothes for them He put a cloth on their lips Quiet hands, quiet kiss On the mouth
And in my best behavior I am really just like him Look beneath the floorboards For the secrets I have hidTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
