блог о музыке [bad word]  [bad word] thespaces

Keep your producer guessing 
 When you're in the booth confessing 
 And say it was mostly fiction 
 If they [bad word] to get you 
 Better bet your bottom dollar 
 On the spirit, son, and father 
 That I'll spit and [bad word] and holler, yeah 
 Cause I'm my mother's daughter 
 Be warned, my temper burns 
 Like a ginger-blow pugilist 
 Unconcerned, I never learned to swing elbows 
 Or use my fist 
 Trying to live and let live and focus 
 Invest in problem markets 
 But killer's on a road trip 
 His text says not with carcass 

 From the backs of tent flyers in pen 
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess 

 When I was a little fat kid 
 I'd throw fits and punch doors 
 My frame is the same 
 I've just thinned; I want more 
 Down pinned on the floor 
 Trading places with my shadow 
 pallid sallow corpse for a rising [bad word] to swallow 
 Fully unarmed or armed under the robes with a staff only 
 Or unarmed fully under the robes 
 Through the ribs and inner but 
 But for a bulging lung of poison 
 Poised to voice its cuts 
 And what's worse, of course 
 The sick and bile-y guts 

 From the backs of tent flyers in pen 
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess 

 They asked him whether he was sane 
 And if he'll ever kill again 
 Take half a clever lawyer's brain 
 To link the weapon to the man 
 Bitter thoughts, liver spots 
 Or bash your skull on river rocks 
 Love you lots, signed mom with hearts 
 OXOX on a Hallmark card 

 From the backs of tent flyers in pen 
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess