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Boys, they've got wicked things on their minds. |
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Before the father said you're toein' the line. |
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Like a finch on Saturday, sin with wings. |
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Give your tongue to God, on Sunday sing. |
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It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die, |
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But she was born to cry. |
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To cry herself to sleep. |
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Red cowards in the home of the brave. |
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Rather the knaves and crooks that twist the good book. |
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Peasants, paupers, pilgrims they are the same. |
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They give their dollars to God but they need their pay. |
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It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die, |
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But she was born to cry. |
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To cry herself to sleep. |
