Lyrics Hand Made Hand Gun - P.O.S

Hand Made Hand Gun

I am a handmade handgun
Operated by paper crooks,
Loaded up with bullets of blank pages torn from your little black book.
You can call me all your favorites,
Oh, I love those dirty looks.
You know I’ll be drunk and waiting on the steps of St. Anthony’s church.
Knuckle-blood stains the doorframe, frustration both ways
You see me knock, I see you gaze through the peeker
Watch me sneak far away
As I push my pleas through the shades.
I’m out of sight, for I know violence is nine cents from a dime
I spent your mind time stop for us (caught up)
Cost of a heart accosted, don’t blink
Nothin’s so strangled like us
Nothin' deranged like that love
Nothin' explains the way I played like new things don’t break
Live under your ribs, a toybox, an Apple plugin,
Tuned to tune out, give out what’s yours,
Like when in doubt, play the mouse in the mouth like
Please don’t let me die.
But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep.
Take a knee, spillin' salt and shame upon your pretty feet.
With a head full of bourbon, I do this,
Though I love you and I think you hurt me on purpose…
I am a handmade handgun
Operated by paper crooks,
Loaded up with bullets of blank pages torn from your little black book.
You can call me all your favorites,
Oh, I love those dirty looks.
You know I’ll be drunk and waiting on the steps of St. Anthony’s church.
I thought of everything,
Even your paper ring,
The organs playin' our song,
Playin' our song, so sing along.
P.O.S.:
Hail to the graces, the lord is with you.
A blessing for the souls that walk about
Walk among you till this hour of death,
Walk among you till this hour of death.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee;
Blessed art thou among men and women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
You come to find me, hopelessly
Wrapped around the gun, staring at the sun.
Don’t you fuckin' lie to me,
G’head and try it, see, God’s witness,
Pick a sense and listens, hidden,
Layin' down behind a line of ivy
He can hand you pure moments
Or quit you from every sense you got,
Protect you with the spectacles, testicles, wallet watch,
But the devil keeps an open shop
He pays his bills and fills his pots
Thanks to the single sable sheep, hidden in that hollow flock
It’s a classic case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t
And I’ll be damned if I end up playing Job with God’s loving hand on my throat
You could swear I traced a trail of Wormwood slipping from the Empyrean,
But Providence, just a myth if I aim to let my trigger prey
But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep
I’m a prostrate paper tiger supplicating at your pretty feet
My mouth may run on a loaded gun and a belly full of bourbon
I only do this 'cause I love ya;
I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.
I am a handmade handgun
Operated by paper crooks,
Loaded up with bullets of blank pages torn from your little black book.
You can call me all your favorites,
Oh, I love those dirty looks.
You know I’ll be drunk and waiting on the steps of St. Anthony’s church.
I thought of everything,
Even your paper ring,
The organs playin' our song,
Playin' our song, so sing along.
I thought of everything,
Even your paper ring,
The organs playin' our song,
Playin' our song, so sing along