It's Good to be Clown Shoes When You Work at The Circus EP

by Latin For Truth

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03:36
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released May 1, 2013

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Track Name: Arseni Menshevik
My old flame, an oil flag concerned,
with dark bars leading prayers to the vacant church
send writers and professors to the house writing bills
instead of paying them
Menshevik blood, cooler than Davis sketching Spain
my silo eyes see war as hell, new hell
ever new again
Menshevik head on a bloated American boy
Does the house seem red?
blue bloods green to anyone?
the world fights itself
the well diggers soul knows
don't toast the capitol
no one votes for a life of digging holes
I was born poor, gonna die poor
that's what I'm fucking made for
I was born poor, gonna die poor
Is that what I'm fucking made for?
I was born poor, gonna die poor
that's what you're fucking made for
I was born poor, gonna die poor
that's what I'm fucking made for
(born in the dark)
every new again
liquor'd up diggers spin
ever new again
don't toast the capitol
Track Name: Cold Quay
God grant me an audience with the doctor, with the doctor
It's rough when you piss excellence,
one drop is spice for our shit existence
So we hold on to the hope that we'll hear his engine
purring at our door,
one chance to see every life unfold
oh lonely, when all you have is traveling
separate from the call at the end of the lines
Oh lonely, rose is always on our minds
but who can rip a hole in the fabric of time
all alone
all alone
still fucked up
and blue to the bone
England, you're the anchor from which the booth swings
earthly Torchwood be damned, Bad Wolf will answer everything
England, you're the anchor from which the booth swings
the Ponds are gone but you still have River Song
maybe that's what you need
blue to the bone
Track Name: Terra Moan At The Whiskey Moon
I am my stepfather's jealousy for the eldest son
the tape I found that scarred my childhood
republic hyperbole trance coining the vote
the card who dreams till it's caught in the spokes
I'm the baby in the boiler, yelling for my mother
a hassled skater lookin’ for cheap weed and pavement
the memory of the ballot booth you’ve never seen
years you lose to death after too much sleep
Hey, hey, whiskey moon.
Hey, hey, whiskey moon.
Hey, hey, whiskey moon.
Hey, hey, whiskey moon.
wallow and worry, cold from the fury
drink when you’re getting down
scream, “fuck the pigs, swerve at wolves.”
death to my beasts, deliver peace
wallow and worry, cold from the fury
I’m scratching dollar tickets in Tennessee,
terra moan over the valley of my home
too broke to live, much less to get laid.
fuck me, fix me says the renters and fuckless.
love yourself and clean up the mess.
bastard boy bawling in the marrow of his soul
where the drinks are IPA’s and cheap gin,
kicking crows for shots.
bastard boy dreaming abroad cause his ass is stateside.
My, oh my, how the helpless poor pine.
Terra Moan, Terra Moan at the whiskey moon
lonely renters cry in their glasses
a toast to you, a toast to you