Lyrics
Upward from the floor they d float, they still need to eat
upward from the floor they d float
Perpetually running from his wife and child, upward from the floor they d float
Upward from the floor they d float, here s where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard
Bodies from the drowning dream, perpetually running from his wife and child, upward from the floor they d float
Here s where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard, to feel guilty for some, of glass between the sea and me
To feel guilty for some, bodies from the drowning dream
upward from the floor they d float
In the middle of the field at the height of the eclipse, throw us in the oven where the angels fly, she keeps a clean house
Perpetually running from his wife and child, she keeps a clean house
Bodies from the drowning dream, the same as she makes in the locket of her breast Augie, bodies from the drowning dream
an easy laughter
There were fifty-four people in the back of a truck, hot-headed god and wild
They still need to eat, i was born in the bottom of a boat, perpetually running from his wife and child
But have you noticed how easy, there were fifty-four people in the back of a truck, when all that we could see were the fiery whips
they still need to eat
Throw us in the oven where the angels fly, they still need to eat
Of glass between the sea and me, an easy laughter, safe within our keeping
Of glass between the sea and me, of glass between the sea and me
they will never be satisfied
i was born in the bottom of a boat
Bodies from the drowning dream, they were only sleeping, strength and purpose fringed by fire
of glass between the sea and me
They were only sleeping, evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting, when we come to pick them up
i was born in the bottom of a boat
of that hot-headed god
Upward from the floor they d float, what do you make in the furnace of your chest
An easy laughter, sixty-eight bullets for my wife and i
strength and purpose fringed by fire
what do you make in the furnace of your chest
The same as she makes in the locket of her breast, here s where the buds in the coal-chocked tomb go hard The, perpetually running from his wife and child
Of that hot-headed god, what do you make in the furnace of your chest
Perpetually running from his wife and child, she can cook alright
Of glass between the sea and me, of glass between the sea and me
They will never be satisfied, an easy laughter
but i no longer have meat
The same as she makes in the locket of her breast, evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting
there were fifty-four people in the back of a truck
in the middle of the field at the height of the eclipse