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Sentiment wrapped in paper
lacks the punch
of a tongue,
so give me my gun and give me my sword;
be not my death
but be my reward.
We're close.
We're going out of our way
hanging our hopes on a "maybe I'm crazy."
Shoulder cold
from the shake down,
not to fear what's to come.
So give me my gun and give me my sword;
be not my death
but be my reward.
We're close.
We're going out of our way
hanging our hopes on a "maybe I'm crazy."
And for the rest of my life
I thought I'd be doing just fine
without one.
