Flings of the Waistcoat Crowd

Great days are becoming
A matchlight liquor establishment
Where the factory soaks its scabs
It hangs there like insectrocutioner
Over the big river
Scum of us rinsed by a hard rain
The tar, the teeth & the gear

Yet no trail
All around the camp
And that is our game
To brag and complain
To guess who goes next
To tally the scars
Learn every weakness



Credits
Writer(s): Robert Pollard Jr
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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