| Ain’t no color paint gonna cover the stains
|
| The pictures on the wall will all remain
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| And even though he’s home now, sound and safe
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| Surrounded by the faces that he place his faith
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| The images visit from the past he witnessed
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| Can’t stay away from the memories
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| Sticks with each detail, embedded in stone
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| Like he chiseled those convictions into his bones
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| The progress stops and pauses, spits and sputters
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| Like the basement faucet
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| And it’s obvious he’s lost in his regrets
|
| You can smell it on his breath
|
| Ain’t no color paint gonna cover the stains
|
| But now the alcohol is gonna mother the pain
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| Tuck it away, no complaints
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| Just laying on his back, in his backyard under the rain
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| Take tomorrow but doesn’t no how though
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| For every swallow there’s another to follow
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| He weaves his way throughout the story
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| Looking for a new missing piece or a door key
|
| Spirits used to be for celebration
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| But now they just take him away from the hell that’s waiting
|
| Re-up until it’s three sheets up
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| And pick a place for the skeletons to meet up
|
| Ain’t no color paint gonna cover the stains
|
| But if the oxygen escapes it’ll smother the flames
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| No introduction, doesn’t speak his own name
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| Gonna beat them demons at they own game
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| The sunset rides to the end slow
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| Same song echoing outside of the window
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| You can’t grow if the skin don’t fit you
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| Sometimes you gotta get low just to get through
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| No inspiration left to do your best when
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| Nobody hates you more than your reflection
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| Suffer the shame until it stuffs the drain
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| He’s got two hands and a bucket of paint
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| Come on |