The sun bent down and spoke with the last of the lips They spoke of hell and things they'd never miss Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed That breaks backs and leads eyes down Until faces drag against the dirt and ears living in that muddy sound Where the white whales roll just once a year And the arm feeds the hatchet with an African appetite Matched machetes sparkle shine And shape that small-scale guillotine
I've been getting pretty sleeping in these boxes With those blackened mule faces outside my door Shouting Oooohhhhh
The club met the seal and the seal met the dog That carried the man to the end of the trail Where they walked down the streets pavement Was black beneath their feet I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs And dealing in the man with the gold tooth grinTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
