Ghost with a grin outside a skin house Set in the middle of a forty acre marsh Wrapped in moisture, growing, living things All around the dead arms, dead arms of spring
It was my stab at faith, a losing one Derailing any one I had You take my hand and threw me in the Grave, grave, grave, grave, yeah
Now hold your throat The air's a little worse than last week It's little bit warmer than last week It's not like you weren't informed
You're enlightened now It makes no difference anyway We're all on the same list of names
Black tar running from your mouth Engine exhaust smoking out your ears Yellow nails and hair like Twine, twine, twine, twine, yeah
Slow fuel on your side, sharp tip Running water black as night I'm not sure if you're really that informed You're like a small bird needing to be fed
It's probably something you won't take well Loosening every state Trying to rearrange The way I want to look
Take some out altogether Move a few close together And sing, sing a long
It's the death rattle hymn For a place removed from inside It's for the party of sins which always Wins a place down below
Car balanced on an old wood chair Barely hanging on And I'll be there