This Blackest Purse

歌詞

I'm not who with my eyes from stage I claim to be I've only cradled death in my own ending flesh From far off in abstracted lit Candle wick flickering And when a thing starts finishing around me I faint or fake a mustache, an accent or flee In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity Fact: The poser in the bowler gets shot first Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse Acting brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts Scowling And shouting "Shall we dance?" Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? Mom am I failing or worse? Mom am I failing? What should these earnest hands be holding? Still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers I wanna operate from a base of hunger No longer be ashamed and hide my Tears in shower water while I Lather for pleasure I wanna speak at an intimate decibel With the precision of an infinite decimal To listen up and send back a true echo Of something forever felt but never heard I want that sharpened steel of truth in every word The small fry in the bow tie dies first Acting wild like the spirit of God movin' after church Fakin' he's hard like packed-down dirt Already And yelling "Be my guest!" Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? Mom am I failing or worse? Mom am I failing? What should these earnest hands be holding? Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? Mom am I failing or worse? Mom am I failing? What should these earnest hands be holding?