Orange

The pages torn out of your head, a wasted dream
Your face looks like a sickly man dressed in green
But I write in every alphabet I see
And they call me Mephistopheles

This book is worn and swollen underneath her feet
The train it crawls and rumbles underneath the street
But he don't sweat or pay attention to degrees
He just wants to burn all the poor people in need

Roll over and confess, pure as the mountain stream
He whines around the valley into mouths and ears
Their eyes of sediment feed their souls to me
And that's why they call me Mephistopheles



Credits
Writer(s): Midwestern Dirt
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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