No Groove in Gunsights - Swingin Utters

My bag of tricks is down to just to a bag

A home for the filthy, the filthy rich’s rags

Fortitude for many, a humping hole for hags

No substitute nor substance, life on the smelter’s slag

I’m the scapegrace who scissors through by busline

See no sympathy for obstacle, the stepped on and deprived

Plug my ears, cover my eyes

But my fingers leak the cries of civilian, bombardier-evil ones, either side

An idle domicile of steel, bombed to a tin

No privacy, no profit, no prophecy to win

To show what she’s got inside, to show she’s wearing thin

To offend fuck all, if she has fuck all to defend

No grooves in gun sights

Run through the dog bites

Jesus and Mary might

Her bag of tricks is down just to a bag

A home for the filthy, the filthy rich’s rags

Fortitude for many, a humping hole for hags

No substitute nor substance, life on the smelter’s slag

When baby cries she’s mother’s little parasite

She bites off more than she can chew to secure her appetite

Mother’s got a pocket full of unheard lullabies

There is no groove in her bomb site

My friends were denied fuel by decree

Gassed up goons on the fumes, void all civility

Each shouting, «It will take a burden to break me, even on my bum knee

And if you can handle a little sting, it wouldn’t hurt to believe me»

A creed, this dying breed, huddled close in the corners

The framing of the fraud, the immortal mourner

Made to shirk the shit of battle, hearts of boron

A selfish, sinking ship with life rafts for the morons

No grooves in gun sights

Bullets pierce the sunrise

Cover your son’s eyes