Every Time I Die - A Wild, Shameless Plain Lyrics
Old black tusks ripped off of the beast at the bank of the swamp and carved
into statues of arthritic Gods or the handles of blunt swords that you'll one
day run upon, with your eyes covered in moss. Shot down in it's sleep. The big
game of the world wide garbage heap. You mounted it's head on your wall. The
prize? Hollowed out eyes, mold in the cracks of it's skull. The fur is matted
came. Wise men were forced into a layman's trade. With nothing but time, chaos
reigns. A great quiet has followed you to here. A blustering wind with nothing
of worth in it's heart or hands. Your legacy is "a dull catalogue of common
things." You've never even seen the blood you've drawn or looked in the eyes of
the kill you claim was yours before taking your picture with it.
Other Lyrics by Artist
- Every Time I Die - White Smoke
- Every Time I Die - The Low Road Has No Exits
- Every Time I Die - Revival Mode
- Every Time I Die - Drag King
- Every Time I Die - Touch Yourself
- Every Time I Die - Indian Giver
- Every Time I Die - Grudge Music
- Every Time I Die - Business Casualty
- Every Time I Die - Starve An Artist, Cover Your Trash
- Every Time I Die - The Great Secret
- Every Time I Die - Pelican Of The Desert
- Every Time I Die - Decayin' With The Boys
- Every Time I Die - Partying Is Such Sweet Sorrow
- Every Time I Die - I Suck (Blood)
- Every Time I Die - Turtles All The Way Down
- Every Time I Die - Organ Grinder
- Every Time I Die - Host Disorder
- Every Time I Die - After One Quarter Of A Revolution
Rand Lyrics
- Broussard, Marc - Let The Music Get Down In Your Soul
- Broussard, Marc - I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know
- Broussard, Marc - Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)
- Broussard, Marc - Love And Happiness
- Broussard, Marc - I've Been Loving You Too Long
- Broussard, Marc - Respect Yourself
- Broussard, Marc - Yes We Can, Can
- Broussard, Marc - Come In From The Cold
- Broussard, Marc - Bring It On Home To Me
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Every Time I Die A Wild, Shameless Plain Comments
Old black tusks
Ripped off of the beast at the bank of the swamp
And carved into statues of arthritic gods
Or the handles of blunt swords that you'll one day run upon,
With your eyes covered in moss.
Shot down in its sleep;
The big game of the world wide garbage heap.
Mounted its head on your wall,
The prize?
Hollowed out eyes;
Mold in the cracks of its skull,
The fur, matted with blood and it's tongue wet with mother's milk.
The gates opened wide and bedlam came.
Wise men were forced into a layman's trade.
With nothing but time,
Chaos reigns!
A great quiet has followed you to here,
A blustering wind with nothing of worth in its heart or hands
Your legacy is "A dull catalog of common things"
You've never even seen the blood you've drawn
Or looked in the eyes of the kill you claim was yours before taking your picture with it.
Legs earning his paycheck
Wanderlust
Mysterycore