Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Church Pants, artist - Hail Mary Mallon. Date of issue: 02.05.2011
Song language: English
Church Pants |
| When the rats rose up and broke their silence |
| And assembled on the shores of the closest island |
| With their folk beside them and a rogue defiance |
| Went 2 by 2 and awoke Poseidon |
| Leopard print Speedo on the F.D.R. |
| saying «follow that car» |
| Same maze different shit name sake blanket pocked |
| 49 miners slick pick and pan, thanks a lot |
| Hook and reel pushing wheels building more storied land |
| Honest deal daily dose, aching bone, quarry hand |
| I praise the day porn began |
| Loser wins a cupie doll, not the father Maury dance |
| Saddle spin apple sins kings that cry |
| Ousted by the clergy we’re not worthy of the crimson tide |
| Let it be just beware of prison pride |
| Proud Mary keep on burning down the house there’s kids inside |
| Give it time speaking soft send him in |
| Tell him what he’s here for and appear sure to his next of kin |
| Set your sails bed of nails elbow back |
| Trading in the British pound sitting down with Meadow’s dad |
| Kettles black might explode sign the paper |
| Resuscitate me if the doctors are the kind that cater |
| Labor party line, primed with wine and wafer… |
| You’ll get buried in the desert like I’m gator, hater! |
| Pink bunny slippers on the F.D.R. |
| saying «follow that car» |
| Moth man morph devoid of a new cocoon |
| More aches in his joints than joints in his human suit |
| No cigar, scoop dirt smitty over hook-in-mouth |
| Foot work itchy for a hoof and snout, do or die intruder bound |
| Zoomed on the stupefying truancy of |
| Santa’s little helpers watching millie pull her Brooklyn out |
| Part hex, part dark RX, part kill the headlights when approaching a harpy nest |
| Ever oscillating Arp noise, operate and charter stone hearts out of gargoyles |
| Ditto on the guard dogs, ruff! |
| This is not behavior distorted by the presence of other personage |
| More a naturally occurring perfect mess |
| Couriering letters from the burning bridge |
| Paranormal death-match, check back early-ish |
| Crack bread, marry a cursed hand |
| To it’s weapon like Slurpee to church pants, I circle the worm can |
| I’m 21 spud guns burped over Birdland |
| Whole time swervin' the work van |