Song | Smart Flesh |
Artist | The Low Anthem |
Artist | Ben Knox Miller |
Artist | YoungStar |
Artist | Jocie Adams |
Artist | YoungStar |
Album | Smart Flesh |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
See the high-wire man, there before the sun | |
He goes home at night, where he beats on his son | |
The playwright in the attic, in his skylight of sun | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
And the sun beats down, on the smart smart flesh | |
It comes down from high, on its heavenly stead | |
Suggesting redemption, will be easily possessed | |
For less than a pound of flesh | |
And it’s terribly important, to every man of estate | |
To settle the score, write the record straight | |
So he may free his slaves, where on the deathbed he lays | |
Such sweet and knowing flesh | |
Knowing in the end, you’ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Among the mannequin men, all dressed and adorned | |
My manic depressive true love she leaves me forlorn | |
The rooster crows, at daybreak the pawn | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
Saying, “Pretty girls go and take your time | |
For Lord only knows how you have taken mine | |
I’ve chased them clear through the ends of time | |
To hold the smart smart flesh” | |
Knowing in the end, you’ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the hateful playwright, each time that he dies | |
Must visit the judge in a new disguise | |
Saying, “Judge in your robes, oh judge so wise | |
There’s something on your lip” | |
And the man of estate, each time he dies | |
Must clear the black pages that tarnish the mind | |
In a bible and a bath, of formaldehyde | |
He soaks the smart smart flesh | |
Saying in the end, you’ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the unknowing tumor, is fixing its home | |
In the damp bed of the catacomb | |
As the raging war, on the high wire unfolds | |
She buries her teeth in the flesh | |
Now the world’s a machine, do you know that it’s true? | |
For the soul hovers idly just outside the room | |
It loves itself wildly, but what can it do | |
A cigarette on its lip |
See the highwire man, there before the sun | |
He goes home at night, where he beats on his son | |
The playwright in the attic, in his skylight of sun | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
And the sun beats down, on the smart smart flesh | |
It comes down from high, on its heavenly stead | |
Suggesting redemption, will be easily possessed | |
For less than a pound of flesh | |
And it' s terribly important, to every man of estate | |
To settle the score, write the record straight | |
So he may free his slaves, where on the deathbed he lays | |
Such sweet and knowing flesh | |
Knowing in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Among the mannequin men, all dressed and adorned | |
My manic depressive true love she leaves me forlorn | |
The rooster crows, at daybreak the pawn | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
Saying, " Pretty girls go and take your time | |
For Lord only knows how you have taken mine | |
I' ve chased them clear through the ends of time | |
To hold the smart smart flesh" | |
Knowing in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the hateful playwright, each time that he dies | |
Must visit the judge in a new disguise | |
Saying, " Judge in your robes, oh judge so wise | |
There' s something on your lip" | |
And the man of estate, each time he dies | |
Must clear the black pages that tarnish the mind | |
In a bible and a bath, of formaldehyde | |
He soaks the smart smart flesh | |
Saying in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the unknowing tumor, is fixing its home | |
In the damp bed of the catacomb | |
As the raging war, on the high wire unfolds | |
She buries her teeth in the flesh | |
Now the world' s a machine, do you know that it' s true? | |
For the soul hovers idly just outside the room | |
It loves itself wildly, but what can it do | |
A cigarette on its lip |
See the highwire man, there before the sun | |
He goes home at night, where he beats on his son | |
The playwright in the attic, in his skylight of sun | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
And the sun beats down, on the smart smart flesh | |
It comes down from high, on its heavenly stead | |
Suggesting redemption, will be easily possessed | |
For less than a pound of flesh | |
And it' s terribly important, to every man of estate | |
To settle the score, write the record straight | |
So he may free his slaves, where on the deathbed he lays | |
Such sweet and knowing flesh | |
Knowing in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Among the mannequin men, all dressed and adorned | |
My manic depressive true love she leaves me forlorn | |
The rooster crows, at daybreak the pawn | |
Has a cigarette on his lip | |
Saying, " Pretty girls go and take your time | |
For Lord only knows how you have taken mine | |
I' ve chased them clear through the ends of time | |
To hold the smart smart flesh" | |
Knowing in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the hateful playwright, each time that he dies | |
Must visit the judge in a new disguise | |
Saying, " Judge in your robes, oh judge so wise | |
There' s something on your lip" | |
And the man of estate, each time he dies | |
Must clear the black pages that tarnish the mind | |
In a bible and a bath, of formaldehyde | |
He soaks the smart smart flesh | |
Saying in the end, you' ll be alone | |
For lonely death does creep | |
So hire yourself, a chimney maid | |
And smoke yourself to sleep | |
Now the unknowing tumor, is fixing its home | |
In the damp bed of the catacomb | |
As the raging war, on the high wire unfolds | |
She buries her teeth in the flesh | |
Now the world' s a machine, do you know that it' s true? | |
For the soul hovers idly just outside the room | |
It loves itself wildly, but what can it do | |
A cigarette on its lip |