They taught me songs of cognac and rumnto keep away all them spiritual doldrumsnThey'll start to burn and I should've ran slept like a stick in the old beaver damnand we will start a hungry war like Napoleon, by shooting off our mouth nand the beads of sweat are so gullible, that they will glow...nThey sacrificed at the ports of BruneinThey sold me out with their chins to the sky might be my son, let me see your handsnI should've drowned you when I had the chance nand we will fly through the land like syphilis, cutting off their ballsnAnd their punishment will run in a caravan, led by shouts... nnSome grace lands, are like a little secret there to keep you interestednnOn daytime shifts I'll dig through the trash on nighttime runs I'll sort out the pastnIf wishes lived where the bone breakers quakenthese lips of mine they will drink from the lake nthey are crushed by the cunts of the colony, a timid goal golemnand there's a fence hiding backyard dividends, and precious few... nThose bottles shatter at the sound of disputenand bottlecaps are a chorus of rootsnThe bass is sung with a conscience renewed by melodies that will never concludennSo by and by there is grass on the battleground, and the weed grows againnand the soft little strip of an arrowtip, will never cut...nnAnd the broad man, broad shoulders squared... nagainst the bomb nIt's a brave little bayleaf cold... nand curing strongnIt's winter's night west virginia style... nI'll call it home it's summer's eve the clam shell is cracked... nThe mussel's out