I've got a pocket full of blasphemy
A wounded head chock- a-block with gaping words
But what if the wound heals up
And I run out of things to say
And I'm left with a pretty scar
Then no more can I utter such black verse as this
"I've got a bone to pick with you" I can say As I see you on your crutches
Big crutches...Where I can bury the hatchet
Let's put it through the grinder ...And wallow in its' dust
CHRIST!!!!!! What dust collects through many ages
I've got it in my hair and it stinks
History on this head on this velvet skin
Let me put the clock back...Let me see where things went wrong
I see a cloak spread over a puddle... Spread over a pool of piss where ladies walk
Where their longest legs can stride
Let me put on the cloak... Let me be the cloak
So I can water down this song ...So I can be the wet blanket
I throw in the sponge to clean up this mess
Tear these words from my throat
Spit them out and watch
As they become carrion, dust and finally men
But when I leave the past the men become as dust again
And it rests in my hair ... rests upon my head
And threatens to dry up my wound