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Sawn off shot home, |
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No one left to mop up. |
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Bright-eyed dull look, |
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The joke's on your book. |
|
|
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Standoff nearby, |
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A storm on it's way to look. |
|
Storm-eye sulking, |
|
The joke's on your book. |
|
|
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The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life. |
|
|
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We'll get our fists out, 'cause there is nothing coming out of this hopeless southern call. |
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I'll show my wrist low, before their empty guts, there's something going foul. |
|
|
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We'll get our fists wet, 'cause there is nothing coming out of this hopeless southern call. |
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I'll show my wrist low, before their empty guts, there's something going foul. |
|
|
|
Standoff nearby, |
|
A storm on it's way to look. |
|
Storm-eye sulking, |
|
The joke's on your book. |
|
|
|
The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life. |
|
|
|
I saw the sword I used to cut the stainless sheets and calling chords, good luck. |
|
|
|
Sawn off shot home, |
|
no one left to mop up. |
|
Bright eyed dull look |
|
The joke's on your book |
|
|
|
The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life. |
