flings of the waistcoat crowd - robert pollard lyrics

great days are becoming
a matchlight liquor establishment
where the factory soaks its scabs
it hangs there like insectrocutioner
over the big river
sc-m of us rinsed by a hard rain
the tar, the teeth & the gear

yet no trail
all around the camp
and that is our game
to brag and complain
to guess who goes next
to tally the scars
learn every weakness