| Tommy was a preacher’s son,
|
| Now he’s running through the jungle, «yes sir!»
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| Fingers cold and fire,
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| When you get so tired and we’re so tired.
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| Lazing back in this desert,
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| Waitin' for that sunny day.
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| Tommy was a preacher’s son,
|
| Now he’s running through the streets sellin' up that cocaine.
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| Those fires will get ya,
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| When you get too tired and we’re so tired.
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| Eyes blister, beaded fortress, rolling fevered freight trains in.
|
| Well, I met three men with friends in office,
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| Smooth dark skin and ivory teeth smiles,
|
| Our boots come alive in this mud, in this mud and this shit.
|
| In this mud, in this mud and this shit.
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| «Life is hard to fill with teeth that bite and eat up our fears.»
|
| Through August fall of ‘69,
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| Jesus had birthed him.
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| He spoke in guns through crippled sheets,
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| For Jesus had birthed him.
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| Sugar cubes, fingernails, worming snakes that built the fire.
|
| When you get so tired and we’re so tired.
|
| Lazing back in this desert,
|
| Waitin' for that sunny day.
|
| Well, I met three men with friends in office,
|
| Smooth dark skin and ivory teeth smiles,
|
| Our boots come alive in this mud, in this mud and this shit.
|
| In this mud, in this mud and this shit.
|
| Well, I met three men with friends in office,
|
| Smooth dark skin and ivory teeth smiles,
|
| Our boots come alive in this mud, in this mud and this shit.
|
| Well, I met three men with friends in office,
|
| Smooth dark skin and ivory teeth smiles,
|
| Our boots come alive in this mud, in this mud and this shit.
|
| In this mud, in this mud and this shit. |