DESCRIPTION:
There's big money in these fat black hills
If ya know how to smell for it
You could drive home a nail in the sand
And brag half deaf till your hand won't stain that brand
As it burns out your manifest grain
On these windfall days
Some old crank on your water they say
Tills his crop on your pay dirt and won't play
He begs the moon for the next sun to return
As we calculate just how much book to make on his fate
And the grass won't tell...
How we made this belt from his wet hide
In a moment of pure self help
Black and tanned as every good boy should
As the proof of your mettle runs straight through that exit wound
That you left on this varicose land
I can't stand
All your wires embracing me
Thick webbed lure of a glittering treat
By the truckload unclaimed for the better life
Sanctified in your desire to ration my air
With a straight face
And a bootlace noose
For the price of the sediment dreams
I took part in your vacancy
Washed over my hands in your glorious bleed
And then I cut this token from the side of this
Broken and hollowed out monument pain built
If I could cry, I'd drown in lies
In the dead eye of hindsight
And I can't raise my arms
I can't lift this tired form
I can't see why
You're baiting me! Stop baiting me!
With a break in your power just tempered for how I might
Choose to relieve this fat soaked need to be king
For a day
But for the right pay
To covet in steel gray and state shaped hate
For all the vacant bodies burnt and unsaved
For nothing more than being all
I wish I could wipe from this place
And I'm bound to be rolling in these rinds
Tied on tight from my pockets to my mind
A battered bent tail off my spine
Like some slack backed mule that I can't ride
I don't to be out of this time
I don't want to see what there's left of me
If I could run, I'd drag my gun
And set it to right my eyes
If I could raise my hands
If I could lift these tired plans
I'd rake out the croak in my...