WORDS

DRUM

They speak of worms, they speak in epitaphs.

They speak of me in foreign tongues.

I’m buying silver and black crosses made of string

to the sound of a threatening drum.

 

I’ve got my bullwhip, got my dynamite.

I’m feeling dangerous and numb.

I hope you live long enough to shake my buried hand

to the sound of a threatening drum.

 

Oh, drunk and heavy eyes. Sleepy and desiring eyes.

I crawl under this white hot sun.

Oh, I can’t get my fill. I’m spinning with the real quill 

and the sound of a threatening drum.

 

I can’t drink the water so I drink the blood.

I’ve named my price and my poison.

On every corner is a weeping wooden saint

and the sound of a threatening drum.

 

I’m lonely as a distant train. Dirtier than passing change.

Spent and empty as a shotgun shell.

I’m angry and I’m running wild. Screaming like a hungry child.

I’ve earned my place in any christian Hell.

 

They speak of worms, they speak in epitaphs.

They speak of me in foreign tongues.

On every corner there’s a weeping wooden saint

and the sound of a threatening drum.

 

 

JVA - Guitars, Vocals, Bass, Keyboards, Percussion, Drum Samples