Razorblade Suitcase Lyrics - 1996
Gave my love to 2 thousand yesterdays
Nothing is wrong I am always a little late
Probably will probably won't
Get this disease cut out my throat
All of a sudden you come my way
Baby believer I won't be saved by morning after
Struggling my name
Slave turned to master
History moans
Mouth of our father
History moans
Mouth of our father
Edge of my bed
Benzedrine telephone
Struggling to speak
Sicker than sickest dog
Falling faster than liar's grin
We need to be saved from the shit we're in
I believe in you I have found
The perfect way
To bring me down
I won't be saved
By all your yesterdays
Piss on my grave
Piss on the underlay
History moans
Mouth of our father
It's the movement we're after
