Robert Pollard - Flings Of The Waistcoat Crowd lyrics

rate me

Great days are becoming

A matchlight liquor establishment

Where the factory soaks it's 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<br />

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Thanks to razvan