I heard you were the king You didn't leave behind a goddamn thing Why did I look into the dim eye of the mole? There was no silence there many voices spoke Thinking I died I tried to listen I saw one hundred saddles without horses, galloping
Get outta here, go home That's what you used to play at shows
Sister, sister, sister Watches the furniture go She just didn't have the scratch To keep you in that sorry hole
Money money, money Don't let you sleep Switching graves in the cemetery They buried you so many times Can't find your body
Get outta here, go home That's what you used to play at the ends of shows
In the middle of the parade, you were frothing at the mouth "Didn't he ramble 'til the butcher cut him down? "
Fool, all you touch on this turning dream Is either gonna be burned or buried All your jewelry goes around from town to town All your pretty ones, I'm not gonna say where they are now
Get outta here, go home That's what you used to play at the ends of shows
In the middle of the parade, you were frothing at the mouth Children, turn on your radio and don't go out Don't go out Out
Don't go out Don't
Compositor: Christine Frances Quinlan ECAD: Obra #20686057