The Blind Hands

Born between the sea and the storm,

the slow creeping glaciers between Nebraska and Gunz.

Bored of blaming the devil for his Blind Hand of poker.

Above and below, the burning city streets warm

these soles, but not like your tongue does. In the morning

we'll whisper that again once you know our name.

Life's lust lives a dirty laugh, sweet and sour decadent past.

These hollow guitars fill our souls,

we're Blind when our Hands touch them.

.So it goes.



Last week our chevy chases were in the Big Issue