Текст (слова) песни: Robert Pollard - 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
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