These are my last kind words,
I'll keep them mine and mine,
They'll take my body home,
While Ives marches out of time.
These are the generations,
These little puffs of smoke,
These sketches of detached limbs,
Of brains with no skulls.
I extend my middle finger at the shadows on the shelf,
While we all withdraw deeper within ourselves.
And he plays a steel guitar,
Stained with Parchman blood,
Kept her hanging on the gate post,
It's all shellac in a cardboard vault.
And there goes the masked marvel,
And he's dying of TB,
Kept a list on his person,
Of all that you could not believe.
All our idols are really just lost without place,
Our last kind words are really there is no escape.
See this pissed filled river,
It's real deep and wide,
I can stand right here,
And see nothing from the other side,
See nothing from the other side,
See f** all from the other side,
See nothing from the other side.