"Thriftstore", a safety blanket poem. |
Threw out all the laundry - left it dusty on the floor,
there's a bitter taste of coffee in that disappointment cup of yours.
Stick it where it's darkened
stick it where it's damp
stick it so far the sun won't reach it, yeah - stick it where you can.
So just in case you'll leave him or just in case he's left,
I'll write this safety blanket song with wooly safety web.
I swear from my mother's cunt to the grave she dug for me -
I am sick of confessions let's just be us and ours and we!
Well, guns are getting loaded and drums are pounding deep -
modern-hipster teenage soldiers, marching up and down their streets.
In their uniforms from Bangkok, in their uniforms from France -
with their metaphorical swastikas, etched into their skin.
I swear from my mother's cunt to the grave she dug for me -
FUCK ALL MORALS, I WANT YOU TO BE WITH ME.
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