From the album Somebody, Somewhere


Bring me grandaddy’s chisel
So I can open up the trunk
It might be filled with gold doubloons
But it’s probably just junk

My arm is falling, sparks are flying
Like a knockturn alley spell
There’d probably be witnesses
If they could only stand the smell

And so I slink into the nearest bathroom
And i sneak another cigarette
I probably should be in a cage
But they haven’t caught me yet

Somewhere a tape machine is whining
Playing memories back in stereo
There’s a puppet with broken strings
Getting up off of the floor

I hear them talking outside the window
Voices hushed and low
“What’s do you think he’s doing in there?”
Trust me you don’t really wanna know

It’s cold outside out on 4th street
The cats are all in their bags
And I’m just a lit up silhouette
A spent match dressed in oily rags

And the room is a red light special
And in my hand a cold grenade
And if you stay I’ll sing you
A black powder serenade.