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de Brian Regan

Put the knife under the flame
You won't feel any pain
Hold this teacloth in your mouth
67 blackout

Dead donkey in the snow
Down by where the ferns grow
Saw it's spirit leaving south
67 blackout

We went out on the tear
And we danced the carpets bare
When I drenched the mid week doubt
67 blackout

My nerves they got shot
I deserved what I got
A left hook in a bout
67 blackout

I taped the microphone to the chair
And sang through the speaker
Down the cables I did shout
67 blackout

There's a tape of you talking
Buried in an attic somewhere
I asked down the main street for it
No one knows a thing about it

For a poultice we'll soak some bread
Then we'll carry you to bed
With or without
67 blackout

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