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Briggs

de These Arms Are Snakes

Ghost with a grin outside a skin house
Set in the middle of a forty acre marsh
Wrapped in moisture, growing, living things
All around the dead arms, dead arms of spring

It was my stab at faith, a losing one
Derailing any one I had
You take my hand and threw me in the
Grave, grave, grave, grave, yeah

Now hold your throat
The air's a little worse than last week
It's little bit warmer than last week
It's not like you weren't informed

You're enlightened now
It makes no difference anyway
We're all on the same list of names

Black tar running from your mouth
Engine exhaust smoking out your ears
Yellow nails and hair like
Twine, twine, twine, twine, yeah

Slow fuel on your side, sharp tip
Running water black as night
I'm not sure if you're really that informed
You're like a small bird needing to be fed

It's probably something you won't take well
Loosening every state
Trying to rearrange
The way I want to look

Take some out altogether
Move a few close together
And sing, sing a long

It's the death rattle hymn
For a place removed from inside
It's for the party of sins which always
Wins a place down below

Car balanced on an old wood chair
Barely hanging on
And I'll be there

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