Fell in league with the bastard souls. The last in line.
Sworn to the dark and living low. Desperate every night.
Cold water and kerosene. Can’t beat the rent.
Minor-league chemistry and sleeping in.
The wind cuts through my desert blood. So thin and warm.
I speak in wives tales and rumor mills. Six crows in line.
Wanted to call last night, but I’m all crossed knives.
Wanted to trade my youth for yours, I wasted mine.
And here I go running at the mouth.
All those old feelings knocking out my teeth.
We’ve all got wolves in the walls.
We’ve all got a ghost to chase.
We medicate our existential impulses.
Darkness and light in the dead of night.
It’s a fine line to fall below and not come back.
Living in red and betting black, the lowest low.
Cold water and kerosene. Liver kissed clean.
Cold water and kerosene.
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