robert pollard – flings of the waistcoat crowd lyrics
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great days are becoming
a matchlight liquor establishment
where the factory soaks its scabs
it hangs there like insectrocutioner
over the big river
sc-m of us rinsed by a hard rain
the tar, the teeth & the gear
yet no trail
all around the camp
and that is our game
to brag and complain
to guess who goes next
to tally the scars
learn every weakness
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