| One more trip up to the lake
|
| Fish are rotten in the sun
|
| I slip the knife into these depths
|
| There’s nowhere left, for me to run
|
| Federales on my trail
|
| Someone out there knows my face
|
| I can’t fight the urge no more
|
| I might as well get me a taste
|
| And you know that idle hands are made from devil’s work
|
| And I ain’t done nothing well, keep them from around your throat
|
| With red hands and black deeds
|
| Ain’t no flowers left, only weeds
|
| There’s an RSVP with the law
|
| Damning me
|
| Now my work is almost done
|
| They’ll take my breath but not my deeds
|
| Before they come and dig this grave
|
| They’ll see my face in every dream
|
| And you know that idle hands are made for devil’s work
|
| I ain’t done nothing all day, keep 'em from around your throat
|
| With red hands and black deeds
|
| Ain’t no flowers left, only weeds
|
| There’s an RSVP with the law
|
| Damning me
|
| Red hands feed my rage
|
| By the sound of a thousand horns I come and
|
| Black deeds fuel my resolve for I know that it must be done
|
| The trophies seemed like a stone, seemed like a stone
|
| Driving in halls of Davy Jones
|
| (And you know)
|
| That idle hands are made from devil’s work
|
| And I ain’t done nothing all day, keep 'em from around your throat
|
| With the red hands and black deeds
|
| Ain’t no flowers left, only weeds
|
| There’s an RSVP with the law, damning
|
| RSVP with the law, damning me |