| A man who thirsts for milk in the unwed regions of his mouth
|
| And finds nothing but sand in an old red pail from his youth
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| That he’s long since ceased to recognize
|
| Hanging heavy by a crooked tooth
|
| Will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, he will thirst like that always
|
| He will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, he will thirst like that always
|
| Hidden down in a pyre smoke
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| Of old movie posters
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| G4 motherboards with 90s porn in their cache
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| And barber’s trash
|
| Mixed in with the light floating paper ash
|
| And rest is only just some more smoke rising
|
| No fleeting omen for your eyes only waiting
|
| No ancient mystic spirits writhing
|
| Or translucent sage ghosts calmly speaking truths
|
| No you will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, you will thirst like that always
|
| You will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, you will thirst like that always
|
| The last black cowboy
|
| Careful to never utter «howdy» or draw fire
|
| Keeps his last crisp Stetson
|
| In a locked drawer at his father’s house
|
| Unworn, still in its box
|
| And he will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, he will thirst like that always
|
| He will always thirst like that
|
| Yeah, he will thirst like that always |