Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Body for the Pile, artist - clipping..
Date of issue: 22.10.2020
Song language: English
Body for the Pile |
And it’s stains in the wainscotting |
Cracks in the baseboard |
Arachnid in the corner serving up face |
Like whose house you think this is? |
Prism vision in low light |
Scan prison tats on the back of a low life lifeless |
And a broke nose might just be done drippin' |
Wet all night |
It dries deep red on a off white carpet |
And a soft light arcs just above arm height |
All white Vans placed on the floor |
Pack of Pall Mall lights |
Bites marks on a half sandwich with no crust |
Mustard and mayonnaise |
Lettuce and red cold cuts |
Moonlight streams through window dust |
It floats up to the ceiling fan that creaks from rust |
As it labors to go around |
Trying to catch that feeling |
And the paint on his base is peeling |
And the taste in the air is faint but there |
Just enough that the rats are nearing |
Cause where there’s blood there’s feast and famine |
Makes murder a meal |
And the cheap wall clock will stop at one shot |
So he knew it was time to kill |
Bust one shot if your blood still pumping |
Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something |
Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time |
You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
Body for the pile, body for the pile |
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
And you should probably take your last breath right about now |
Office highly decorated |
Plastic frames around diplomas, all the commendations |
Accommodating swivel chair where the blue suited sir sits slumped |
Brains splattered, wall stained, grey matter runs |
Badge with his name makes blood on the tongue |
'Cause it’s pinned to his right cheek |
Right where the gun must have first flirted |
Before it was stuck in his mouth |
Officer *bleep* with his brains blown out |
Water pitcher with the ice |
Two glasses one either side |
Of the desk the lipstick left on one appears to smile wide |
And the slanted blinds are squinting just enough |
For the sunrise to zebra stripe the room with light |
He would have had to shield his eyes |
But they wide open no motion |
No, he never flinched |
Palms flat on the table, didn’t seem to move an inch |
Fish bowl on the far side of the room |
Where goldfish swims around |
Suspicious of the gun that now sits in the bowl with him |
Bust one shot if your blood still pumping |
Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something |
Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time |
You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
Body for the pile, body for the pile |
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
And you should probably take your last breath right about now |
Red and blue light spinning |
On the corner by the new fried chicken spot |
Cop car hopped the curb then absurdly hit the hydrant |
Which wouldn’t stop |
Spraying water that’s dripping over the face that’s made its way through the |
windshield |
And cuttin' bleedin' the people leaving the scene and saying they never seen him |
Coming but he must have run the light, he never rolled |
Hand is reaching for the gun but couldn’t get a hold |
So, it’s sitting limp up on the dash |
And all the flashing of the cameras is lighting up the noontime cold |
Overcast broken glass |
On the concrete the scent of gasoline |
Hovers over the motor smoke |
And the single broken bicycle spoke wheel still protruding |
The medics moving the little twisted body to bag it up |
Detective notices the traffic camera then calls the station to back it up |
And somewhere the screams turn into sobs |
And the sirens mix with the howls of dogs |
And from the water the rolling fog |
Scented wet as the breath of God |
They say in the greyscale city |
Where the skies are scraped |
And the days are pretty much shaded |
You never know the faithful, they walk and they pray |
And there’s one less lung sucking air today so |
Bust one shot if your blood still pumping |
Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something |
Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time |
You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
Body for the pile, body for the pile |
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile |
And you should probably take your last breath right about now |