I read your foreign label,
I brewed a Polish stew, I
know it all sounds crazy,
but that's all up to you,
try not to get yourself worked
up, I know it's hard to take,
unclean men all touch the meat
while rich men eat the steak,
and the bird outside your window,
she sings an lonesome tune, while
the old man with the box guitar
plays to an empty room
There's a shadow on the
windowsill, a long hospital hall,
the nurses drag machinery
past bad paintings on the wall,
and in the cubbyholes of rooms
your mama sings a song,
"don't worry little children,
by now it won't be long",
and up above the flashing
lights the choppers swing
down low, and the statue of
the Jesus stands with both
both hands full of holes
