The record always kept track
White paper turns black
Some sort of cancer keeps coming back
I can’t take my eyes off of it
Or the low light that it makes
You low life don’t you break the glass
Honey, the scowl seems cool if I ever ask for money
No lending hand
No hanging cross over my head when I’m sleeping
I am a beggar and you are a maid in the house
That I broke into the moment that they went out of town
To bury their long-gone son in the garden