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Flings of the Waistcoat Crowd Lyrics

Great days are becoming
A match light liquor establishment
Where the factory soaks its scabs
It hangs there like insect-rocutioner
Over the big river
Scum of us rinsed by a hard rain
The tar, the teeth & the gear

Yet no trail
All around the camp
And that is our game
To brag and complain
To guess who goes next
To tally the scars
Learn every weakness

Great days will be coming
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Submitted by
sykonachoman On Nov 12, 2011
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