The taste for pick on string
But that enemy in me keeps
Aiming for that bottle of Gin
Which is bullshit cos
Its a women's drink
Still my fingers plow now and then
Not on the instrument but in my mind
I can't touch that guitar
Since she put a curse on it by her leaving
She full of fire fell on my music
And I bled, Oh Lord I Bled,
The fire in me gone with her
To the black pit of doom
With her ancestors sucked of their souls
Trailor park white trash with no remorse
So I must sing above them
Redemption songs
For if they hold me down much longer
I will surely die
© shaun patrick green 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment