Lyrics, licks and lies, lies, lies

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Son Of The Gun

Baby, I been crawling the road of all dust,
Trawling the river of souls as I must,
Gathering winnings in houses of fun.
I’m a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

Gamblers and hookers and thieves are my friends.
Damned, doomed and lost, I may yet make amends.
But I know I will suffer for what I have done.
I’m a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

Sleeping under the stars, in the bars of nine states,
Homeless and free in the land of the great,
A pilgrim, a prophet, a prodigal son,
I’m a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

I hold in my right hand the book of the law,
The other hand pointing, a two-fingered claw.
But the weapon I wield is the lash of my tongue.
I’m a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

Father-forsaken, but made in his light,
A lone star to guide me through my endless night,
Where wisdom and justice and mercy are done,
By the son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch… son of the gun.

You judges and sherriffs may gather your men,
But I serve a power that’s greater than them,
And the forces I marshall will stand when you run
From the a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and the son of the gun.

Drunken and drowning, I still stagger on,
Dead to the world in the first light of dawn.
But a dead man is free from the past he would shun,
As a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

O Father, forgive thee; I wish that I could,
But I still remember the nail in the wood,
And the hammer that fell, and the end it begun
For a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

There’s a wounded and wasted boy waiting for me,
Hanging down by the crossroads and under the tree.
And they say that his brother one day will return,
That son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch… that son of the gun.

O Mother, you tried, but his fist was too tight.
I remember your face and the knuckles so white.
And the scarlet and purple you wore for your young.
For the sons of a preacher-man, sons of a bitch, sons of the gun.

Branded and bound with a curse for a name,
Haunted and hounded, I carry the blame
For the earth stained with blood of an innocent son…
Son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch… son of the gun.

O Brother, the choice that I made wasn’t mine.
Crows in the cornfield and blood on the vine.
I’ll carry your soul till there’s nowhere to run.
For a son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and a son of the gun.

I know that one day I will see them once more -
My father the judge and my mother the whore –
And the earth will be scorched by a terrible sun…
By the son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch, and the son of the gun.

I have been crawling the road of all dust,
Trawling the river of souls as I must,
Calling in debts on the lives I have won,
This son of a preacher-man, son of a bitch… this son…
Of the gun.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home