Boots
I sit with my bruises to pull off my boots
I sit with my bruises to pull off my boots
You don't give a fig for my roots
You don't lend a hand with these boots
You sit and you whine like your bruises are red
Bleeding and weeping
The willow is dead
You don't give a fig for my head
My own disposition
The willow is dead
You don't give a fig for my head
Your head as I see it is heavy and plump
Perched on your neck like a ball on a stump
So here is my sympathy
Heavy and plump
Head like a ball on a stump
We always find something to pull and resist
It lends the impression we surely exist
In landfills and graveyards our marks will persist
When the flesh dies
And the silence breaks again
I sit with my bruises to pull off my boots
I sit with my bruises to pull off my boots
You don't give a fig for my roots
You don't lend a hand with these boots
Autor(es): Matt Carpanini