All the alcoholics wore t-shirts
The kind that displayed their work
All the trouble that we went through
The kind that dug the hurt
We found smiles in the sorrow
To overcome the past
Stretch wool across skin
To irritate the rash
Lay you on a bed of vomit I urge you to strike a pose
Press my lips upon it strategically tear your clothes
We static cling to everything I'll bite you on the cheek
Slit your neck with diamond rings I'll starve you for a week
Pressure cooker tiny tongues
Sniveling sour puss
Grandma's got that broken back cry and still you stomp your feet
Seven days and seven nights toying with defeat
I've felt the rush of things to come I've made my nickels shine
Your trust is a bloated corpse I've come to claim what I know is mine