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So we played our games in the dug-out graves Shouting curses at the dirt 'til the Messiah showed his face, With his soap-stone eyes and his seaweed beard and he scolded us so sharply with his winding river tongue. It was not my place to be calling names 'Cause I was the oil-spitting acid-tripping dog "I would like to see you at your worst" What's your worst? So you'll sleepwalk home in a sick moon's glow Just a lonely set of bones beside a lonely service road You will crack your skull like a rotting hull just to picture all the good you could've done yourself by picking from the tree. So I read the psalms off your painted palms Letras de cancionesand they drew a darker picture than our father would've liked. It is not your place to be digging graves Should have learned from my mistakes and left it up to fate. From Letras Mania