You can't dig what you don't understand, boy
|
Sometimes it's the only way
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Well, the misery's so fucking exciting
|
Well, the fashion of it all's the fucking rage.
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These are hammers on strings making notes, babe
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With blood and the frog in my throat
|
These are binders covered in bad poetry
|
Now knowing what it's really all about.
|
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Oh where, oh where, oh where...
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Did you get that stupid shit-eating grin that you wear?
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And what, or who got you through the door?
|
You're a piece of meat on the killing floor.
|
|
These are closed and velvet ropes
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And a curtain-sipping cokes
|
To be certain, it's so slow
|
That it's hurting, don't you know?
|
|
Take your chances in the killing fields
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With all the snakes and dogs
|
And dance 'til you bleed and bone touches steel
|
And all your hope is gone.
|
|
-----------------
|
Huffing The Proverbial Line Off The Proverbial Dong -or- Blood & The Frog
|
| The Falcon |
