Ghost with a grin outside a skin house
Set in the middle of a forty acre marsh
Wrapped in moisture, growing, living things

All around the dead arms, dead arms of spring

It was my stab at faith, a losing one

Derailing any one I had
You take my hand and threw me in the
Grave, grave, grave, grave, yeah


Now hold your throat
The air's a little worse than last week

It's little bit warmer than last week
It's not like you weren't informed


You're enlightened now
It makes no difference anyway
We're all on the same list of names


Black tar running from your mouth
Engine exhaust smoking out your ears

Yellow nails and hair like
Twine, twine, twine, twine, yeah


Slow fuel on your side, sharp tip
Running water black as night
I'm not sure if you're really that informed

You're like a small bird needing to be fed

It's probably something you won't take well

Loosening every state
Trying to rearrange
The way I want to look


Take some out altogether
Move a few close together

And sing, sing a long

It's the death rattle hymn

For a place removed from inside
It's for the party of sins which always
Wins a place down below


Car balanced on an old wood chair
Barely hanging on

And I'll be there