| A brown horse, with golden-brown mane
|
| manic pressure on your veins
|
| so strong a need — a needle so thin
|
| it’s calling you, it’s cold, the enemy within
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| And I just feel as cold as ice
|
| sharp as a blade, mute as a child
|
| I feel so bad when I see you ride
|
| that sick little brown line from that sad white bag
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| And when I see your face on dope
|
| these times I know there was no hope
|
| you hold the needle like a shining sword
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| and nothing matters anymore
|
| You’re wearing dead white skin
|
| No face just dead white skin
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| dead lips, so dead-white clean
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| please, stop it, stop it, sister morphine
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| you can kill yourself if you want
|
| but you won’t be the only one
|
| to fall back from the dead brown horse
|
| I’ll follow you — fix and rejoice !
|
| And I just feel as cold as ice
|
| mute as a blade, sharp as a child
|
| I feel so bad when I see you ride
|
| that sick brown horse in that sad white bag
|
| that sad little white bag
|
| that sad little brown line
|
| sick sad bag back
|
| we all fall down from the horse’s back
|
| And when I see your face on dope
|
| these times I know there was no hope
|
| you hold the needle like a shining sword
|
| and nothing matters anymore
|
| you can kill yourself if you want
|
| but you won’t be the only one
|
| to fall back from the dead brown horse
|
| I’ll follow you — fix and rejoice !
|
| you can kill yourself if you want
|
| but you won’t be the only one
|
| to fall back from the dead brown horse
|
| I’ll follow you — fix and rejoice ! |