Robert Pollard - Flings Of The Waistcoat Crowd lyrics

Great days are becoming A matchlight liquor establishment Where the factory soaks its scabs It hangs there like insectrocutioner Over the big river Scum 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