now this new jack can sit in the old room going for brokenwrangling wild horses with my toes in the ropenholding a smoke, i lay back and enjoy the dragni may be broke, praise the fact that i employ the flagnburners on freights make it hard to watch the road sometimesnlooking for a place to stay in barbershops with open signsnsoaked in wine, booze smoking wisdomnnow i'm the right mood to hold the rhythmni hold some wholesome womennpick up the old six string and write a song for false imprisonmentnbut i never shot a man and i never been to reno guess i'm better of demanding plans of ???nnthere's a veteran of this monsternwho wears the heads of a hundred fathersnand lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offersnnmy rudder's locked for the evening, ship still sailingncrushing into docks when i'm sleepingndon't mock the meaning and i won't stop dreaming nwhile i'm off eating more than i can fit my mouth aroundnthis sound has lost its leaningnoften feeding on its own youngnso what's the cost of fleeing if you don't runnnow no one is as beautifulnas a rainy season making love to a funeralnfor the dead-dreamers, and the slave drivers, this is cecil otter forevernfever for the cave-lifers, and stage divers, and cage fightersnnlike this oat sleeps in the acorn, that ghost sleeps in the new bornni slit the throats to keep my cave warm in hopes that it keeps my true form sombernnthere's a veteran of this monsternwho wears the heads of a hundred fathersnand lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offersnnthis house is hauntednit was built over burried axesnthis couch, i'm on itnstill sober barely activencarry caskets that some are calling dead weightnthey're of the falling (?) type eating dough before the bread bakesnmy head aches and it pains me to medicate itnbut until i learn to brave the road alone i'll stay dedicated nif my bed is made with an audience in mindnit'll most likely fight me off with the fists of timeni don't miss the finer things in life anymorendesigner rings were just knives, ready for the killnready for the score, how many whore their skillnhow many warm their soul with the will of an authornnthere's a veteran of this monsternwho wears the heads of a hundred fathersnand lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offersnnlike this oat sleeps in the acorn, that ghost sleeps in the new bornni slit the throats to keep my cave warm in hopes that it keeps my true form somber